


The Weather Report Was Sunny When We First Met

by Sodafly



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blindness, Car Accidents, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Piningjolras, explicit content in future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:11:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>'There are Braille labels on the flat surfaces of each alphabetically organized audio-book, sewn into the back of his clothing, each identifying uplifted mark smoothing the paving stones of his existence. Little by little, with each passing moment spent marveling as dexterous pianist fingers travel over paper, a Braille label had been stamped unknowingly over Enjolras’ heart. That way Grantaire would know it was his when he held it in his hand'.</em>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">
  
</p><p class="MsoNormal">
  <span>Or, an AU where Enjolras (a secret dork who is ultimately stuck in a rut and suffering mild insomnia) meets Grantaire (a blind pianist who is equally as dorkish) </span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friday Afternoon in a Yellow Parisian July

**Author's Note:**

> In which I take 'nobody loves the light like a blind man' too literally

  


The morning television had given the promise of clear skies and sunlight, spreading warmth through that Friday afternoon in a yellow Parisian July.  Tourists are swarming in the many, from couples sharing a map to groups being herded around by some person with an umbrella.

 

The park near the university is quieter than the more conventional parks, heaving with students and residents in the surrounding apartments, and Courfeyrac is running across the grass with a box of fliers in his arms. The others are gathered by a lone park bench in an area that has been promptly evacuated, boards of information and posters have been set up, fliers dished out evenly between them with the spares still in boxes beneath the bench. Luckily the megaphone is nowhere in sight meaning that there is a glimmer of hope that the police won’t force them to move on like they had last time.

 

“You are late.” Enjolras greets, arms folded, weight shifted onto one leg.

 

“It’s great to see you too sweetums” Courfeyrac coos, tone thick with sarcasm as he pushes the box under the bench. Feuilly is laughing in the background, sunglasses pushed into his hair.

 

“Can we just start already?” Feuilly says, rolling his shoulders and neck.

 

It’s a rally for their latest project of contributing water aid to countries suffering drought, mild considering their normal projects of apposing torture and political corruption, but a mixture of studies and increased police warnings meant they’ve dialed it down slightly. Enjolras has his hair tied up in a bun secured with pencils, voice projecting clear across the field without the need for a megaphone. But the sun and heat has made them lazy and the softer subject isn’t driving away the people in the park for once meaning fliers are being accepted and donations are being made.

 

By the time Joly and Musichetta turn up with lunch even Enjolras is bored, wishing he could scream about the government over the natural occurrence of drought. The sun is too hot for protests, and they end up lounging in the grass, Combeferre reading with glasses perched on the edge of his nose, Feuilly lying with a hand over his eyes and a cigarette in his mouth, Enjolras shedding his jacket and gazes out across the park at the groups of people. Courfeyrac is stood a few feet away, talking to a man wearing a floral crown with mid-length auburn strands spilling over the petals, arm linked with slightly taller man with a mop of dark curls falling over his eyes.

 

“Combeferre.”

 

“Yes”

 

“Who is Courfeyrac talking to?” Combeferre looks up, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. In the background, Joly is trying to force feed Feuilly water under the fear that he’s going to get dehydrated.

 

“I don’t know. The one talking to Courfeyrac did appear interested in our group, maybe he’s roping in new members.”

 

Enjolras hums, watching as the pair exchanges a pen and Courfeyrac is writing something down on the other’s arm. Roping in new members maybe, but it was more likely an act of roping in a date. Deciding to take matters into his own hands, Enjolras rises to his feet, ignoring Combeferre’s exasperated sigh and striding across the grass toward Courfeyrac. Even if Courfeyrac is fishing for dates, Enjolras can hijack the catch for his own purpose.

 

“Ah Enjolras this is Jehan, he has been quite taken with our cause.” Courfeyrac beams, folding his thumbs in his belt loops with an expression of smugness. He knew, of course he knew what Enjolras had been thinking.  Glare turning soft, Enjolras turns to Jehan, smiling a little half smile and shaking Jehan’s hand.

 

“I’ve seen you around here before and found it quite fascinating. I’ve always wanted to come and say hello but I didn’t want to interrupt.” Jehan says, his voice gentle and skin soft, tucking a lock of loose hair behind one ear. It’s quite endearing really and Enjolras is already developing a soft spot for the shorter gentleman.

 

“Nice to meet you Jehan, although I must admit, this isn’t the type of work we do often. We are more of an activist group than an aid charity, but if you are still interested then you are welcome to attend our meetings whenever you wish.”

 

A snort interrupts whatever might have been said next. The other man who stands arm in arm with Jehan is smirking, black hair disrupting the view of his eyes. The sound makes Enjolras’ feathers ruffle, but Jehan merely pats his bicep and says

 

“I’m sorry, Enjolras, this is my friend Grantaire.” No movement for a handshake or greeting is given and Courfeyrac is smiling as he has obviously already been introduced to the man during the half an hour he had been stood there previously. Enjolras cocks his head, frowning.

 

“Oh, and does your friend Grantaire wish to contribute?” Neither subtlety nor manners have ever been held as a forte. Grantaire’s smirk widens and he waves a dismissive hand.

 

“The sun is too hot for commentary, even if it is as valued as my own, and I would not like to sully the day with my opinion. Besides” He turns his head to face Enjolras properly, hair shifting out the way of his eyes in the breeze “We have only just met.”

 

Enjolras blinks, trying in vain to keep the shock off his face. The man before him has eyes that are frosted, with a milky blue creating a sheet of ice over his pupil, fanning out into slightly discolored pale green irises and pink stained eyeball whites. It’s stunning really, and Enjolras is well aware that he’s staring but there is nothing he can do about it, or at least, there’s nothing he wants to do about it.

 

“No please, I am an avid believer in the freedom of speech.” Enjolras says to break the silence before it can stretch into something awkward. He ignores Courfeyrac’s puzzled expression. Grantaire chuckles, shaking his head.

 

“I’m sure you are, but how about we save expression of opinion for another time.”

 

“I take it that means you will join your friend in attending one of our meetings?”

 

“Jehan can make me do a number of things, but I would not rest assured on it.”

 

A stab of disappointment runs through him for some unknown reason, a stab that is quickly patched up and shoved aside. Courfeyrac is smiling broadly now, clapping a hand against both Grantaire and Jehan’s shoulders.

 

“Well it’s been great meeting you two and I hope to see you around sometime.” Courfeyrac, ever the charmer, receives smiles in return and Jehan waves a hand towards the digits scribbled on his arm before the pair depart. Enjolras watches as they go, Jehan waving a hand in animated talk as Grantaire walks with utter assurance, his freehand slotted in his pocket.

 

“And you complain about me flirting at rallies.” Courfeyrac’s smug expression is back, draping an arm across Enjolras’ shoulders as they walk back to the group.

 

“I wasn’t flirting.”

 

“Oh please, ‘I am an avid believer in the freedom of speech’, is that activist talk for can I have your number?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes.

 

“I don’t even know him. I think you are confusing me for you.” It may be true, but even so, Enjolras couldn’t help but feel a tiny thrill at the thought of getting the know the two men better.

 

A thrill, he may later come to regret.

 

*

 

Wednesday mornings are just one of the two official meetings times for the ABC Society. The second official meeting time is Saturday evenings; even though they end up congregating in the Musain almost everyday despite this, but official meeting times are the only times when no one is allowed to tell Enjolras to shut up. It’s equally as sunny that Wednesday morning as it had been on the Friday campaign day, the sun having already risen lazily over the horizon at some earlier hour; tourists in their couples are already walking along the Seine, some looking for places to eat, other’s just taking delight in a morning stroll.

 

The Musain is a small café on the bank of the Seine, one of many sprawled out along the river course, with tables and wicker chairs spewing out onto the pavement outside and comfy sofas huddled on the inside. The group have pulled up tables and chairs into a small cluster towards the entrance, table scattered with coffee and breakfast pastries, Joly and Combeferre huddled over texts books and notes as they prepare for that mornings class. Very few of them are students now, with only Joly, Combeferre, Marius and Cosette still attending university either out of age or course length.

 

Morning meetings are always calmer than the evening meetings, as everyone is still too lazy with a sleepy haze to shout and protest against society. Enjolras presents a document filled with donation figures, number of pamphlets distributed, general feedback and a small section of comparison against their past campaigns. It had been a success, there was no denying that and Enjolras had been on the phone to the charity they had been raising money for that weekend to arrange the transaction. It was nice to have a success for a change; normally they just ended up screaming at a crowd that didn’t realize just how society screwed them over.

 

What is also a nice surprise is the sight of Jehan sat between Cosette and Courfeyrac at the table, having already been welcomed before Enjolras’ admittedly late arrival. There is a small collection of braids in his hair, framing his face that is speckled with a pebbledash of freckles. But there is something about his appearance here, something Enjolras feels like he should remember but can’t quite place, like something is missing from the initial picture.

 

“Good to see you came along Jehan, do you think this might be a regular occurrence?”

 

“I’m not one to deny myself pleasant company so I don’t see any reason why not.”

 

“He says that but really we all know that he’s here for my good looks and charm.” Courfeyrac interrupts, an arm draped over the back of Jehan’s chair. Jehan smiles, nudging Courfeyrac in the ribs with a fond gaze. Enjolras looks towards Courfeyrac, knowing a new conquest when he saw one and Jehan was certainly becoming the object of perusal.  Jehan places the porcelain china of his tea up down onto the table, folding one hand over the other as he chooses to ignore the comment.

 

“Unfortunately I was unable to drag Grantaire out of bed, I know you were looking forward to hearing his opinion.” Enjolras remembers now, remembers that the initial missing piece is the taller man with eyes shielded by blue glass and dark curls. For some reason a tug of disappoint yanks his chest, a tug Enjolras forces himself not to show.

 

“Have you any idea if he might want to come to Saturday’s meeting?” Why is he asking? Why should he give a damn if some guy he’s only spoken to briefly doesn’t want to attend the meetings?

 

“Grantaire works Saturday evenings, but I think your meetings end just before his shift so maybe I can convince him to come. He can be difficult about these kind of things.” Enjolras nods, face a controlled blank canvas of emotion, not daring to glance at Courfeyrac who can read him like an open book.

 

Eventually the group starts to filter out, needed to get to work or classes. Enjolras walks along the Seine, slowly making his way towards the university. He’s not needed until noon, but despite the avid interest in politics, he has very few hobbies outside freeing the oppressed. Combeferre used to say that it was turning into an obsession he wouldn’t be able to fully satisfy, that he needed another outlet to provide a sense of joy rather than exasperation. That was until he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears and gave up entirely. When Enjolras wasn’t at the university, he was planning, and when he wasn’t doing either of those things he was… well, he did very little else apart from those things.

 

On Wednesday mornings, after prolonging his stay at the Musain for as long as possible, he’d sit in the university library and go over old lectures, plan new ones, read the essays that Lamarque had given him to proof mark for fun. Until the university either put him onto a further degree course, or accepted him as a lecturer (or well, anything that actually held any form of authority) he was stuck working in teaching administration, sitting comfortably on a minimum pay wage packet. Everyone was in the same boat; both him and his friends seeing it had not been long since they had graduated.

 

Enjolras jumps when Cosette slams her textbooks down onto the table he’s sat at, almost accidentally pressing the send button on an half written email asking why a certain lecturer’s semester plans hadn’t be submitted.

 

“So Jehan.” She says casually, slipping into the opposite chair. There’s still an hour on the clock until his shift starts. “Courfeyrac tells me you guys met him at the drought campaign on Friday.”

 

“Yes, he said he was very interested in our work and it seems that interest has lasted. I take it you like him?” The opinion of his friends were opinions Enjolras held highly in regard, even if he tended to ignore them if they had anything to do with his own personal wellbeing.

 

“He’s delightful. Courfeyrac seems quite taken by him and he can recite Keats by heart, but what I wanted to talk to you about is Courfeyrac said something about another man who was with Jehan on the day of the campaign. He says you tried to flirt with him ‘political activist style’”

 

The only problem is the friendship between Courfeyrac and Cosette is deadly, and as wonderful as it is for the best friend and the girlfriend of Marius to get along, there are moments when Enjolras just wished one of them would fall in a river.

 

“I was not flirting with him. I barely know him and I’m not interested and evidentially after today’s no show, he has no interest in me.”

 

“You? Or the cause?”

 

“What’s the difference?”

 

Cosette sighs, shaking her head ever so slightly.

 

“Lets just see if he comes on Saturday, maybe then we can distinguish the difference.”

 

*

 

On Friday, Bahorel returns after a weeklong trip to England to visit his family. The awaited return is met with many rounds of drinks and Bahorel saying

 

“I’m bringing my girlfriend to Saturday’s meeting.”

 

There’s a cheer, Feuilly bashing his fist on the table and ordering another round of drinks. Bahorel’s girlfriend of three weeks has been something of a mystery, with only Feuilly knowing who she is (an identity he kept tightly under lock and key despite the numerous interrogations during Bahorel’s absence.) Enjolras smiles, feeding off his friends’ excitement.

 

When Saturday arrives, Enjolras actually makes sure he arrives on time to the Musain, walking down into the basement, which is reserved just for them. It’s raining that night following the days of hot sunshine, and having forgot an umbrella, he’s left wringing out his hair in the bathroom and hanging his jacket over the radiator, welcoming the coffee that is brought to him before any kind of coldness can settle in. He sets down his laptop bag, uncaps a marker pen with his teeth after setting up a flip chart and scrolling through his notes. Combeferre, accompanied by Courfeyrac and Joly come jogging down the stairs moments later; Courfeyrac complaining about nerd talk whilst Joly and Combeferre discuss that mornings lecture, coffee stained air filling with medical jargon.

 

Bossuet and Musichetta arrive shortly after that, Marius and Cosette following quickly on their heals. Last is Feuilly stumbling down the stairs with dust-crusted hands and waving his mobile in the air. Apparently Bahorel would be arriving soon with his girlfriend and her friends (all of which were apparently guys much to Courfeyrac disappointment.) Enjolras steeled himself, well aware that they weren’t going to get any work done that evening following the grand revelation. It made a buddle of irritation well up in the pit of his stomach, whilst logically he knew they had very little to talk about that evening.

 

“Sorry we’re late.” Bahorel calls out from the top of the stairs half an hour later, heavy footsteps making the wood creak. He’s cheery as always, hair wet from the dash through the rain from the car park to the café. A shorter woman with black chin length hair and olive skin follows in behind him, settling comfortable at his arm. She’s dressed in jeans, battered boots and a strap top, shaking her hair out from underneath a cap with droplets of rain running down her neck.

 

“So this is my girlfriend Eponine. Eponine this is everyone.” The girl is introduced to everyone in turn, her greeting welcoming and fearless, slipping automatically into the group with surprising ease. But before she can be properly introduced to Enjolras, there’s a creaking on the stairs and Jehan is stepping into the room carrying a bright orange umbrella, with a familiar looking man attached to his arm. Eponine is the one who speaks up then, following Enjolras line of sight.

 

“Oh these are my friends. You guys already know Jehan and next to him is Grantaire.”

 

Grantaire gives a half smile. His hair is dry and has been cut slightly since the previous week, dressed in a button down check shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbow and slightly torn jeans. He’s here and Enjolras can’t stop looking at him. Jehan guides him towards the collection of chairs where the group is gathered, Grantaire’s fingers trailing over the back of the frames and tapping against the table once he’s sat down.

 

“Before it can get awkward.” Grantaire says, his voice good humored as Jehan disappears back upstairs to get coffee. “Yes I actually am blind and no I cannot see a single thing, but from what Jehan has told me you all sound like very good looking people.”

 

“He’s probably talking about me, I’m Courfeyrac.” Courfeyrac say, leaning over Jehan’s empty chair to lay a hand gently on his shoulder. Grantaire smiles, turning towards the sound and placing his hand over the top of Courfeyrac’s.

 

“We met at the campaign thing right?”

 

“Good to see you remembered, that means you’ll also remember Enjolras. Enjolras come over here!” Enjolras wanted to hit Courfeyrac in the mouth for this, as the whole group turns to face him. He sighs, stepping away from his flip chart and resigning himself to the fact that they are not going to get a single bit of discussion done tonight no matter how much he nagged. He pulls out the chair across from Grantaire, wooden legs scrapping against the floorboards.

 

“And you must be Mr Avid Believer in the Freedom of Speech; still so eager to hear my opinion?” Courfeyrac sniggers at the comment, but Enjolras doesn’t even dignify him with a glare because he can’t stop looking at those wide blind eyes, then down at the hands flat against the table and he wonders if he should reach out and brush against his knuckles as Courfeyrac had.

 

“Depends, are you still so reluctant to give it?” Their hands remain apart. Jehan comes back down the stairs, slipping into his chair and placing two mugs down, one smothered in cream, the other watery amber with green leaves floating in the glass.

 

“Say something I disagree with and we’ll see. Although I don’t think you’d like what I would have to say.” There’s a glimpse of a challenging smirk before a sip is taken out of the teacup, top lip hooking gently over the glass rim.

 

“You don’t know me.” Enjolras says, his frown deepening

 

“I know your type.”

 

Before Enjolras can say anything more, Combeferre has placed a hand on his shoulder and is shaking his head ever so slightly. Jehan has drawn Grantaire’s attention away from their conversation that was teetering on the brink of an argument, pulling him into a conversation with Courfeyrac and Bahorel. The group slowly starts peeling off into their own conversations having been enraptured by the miniature stand off starting to form between their leader and the new comer.

 

Cosette pauses on her way to the bathroom, ruffling Enjolras’ hair and tossing a knowing look over her shoulder. Eponine is also grinning at him, the black bead of her lip piercing catching the light.

 

“So you’re the one who encourages Bahorel to get his knuckles split open.” She says, resting her chin on the heel of one hand. Bahorel looks down at his surprisingly intact knuckles, but does take into consideration the white scars disrupting the light tan.

 

“I don’t encourage him, it’s the police brutality that does that.” Enjolras replies, trying to repress a smile. The more vicious protest against the government and the nature of capitalist society often bought about police with riot shield and batons, and none of the members of the ABC where unfamiliar with scrapes and bruises following what was supposed to be a peaceful protest.

 

“I thought you liked your men a little rough around the edges?” Bahorel teases with one of his most charming grins, bringing Eponine closer against his side.

 

“It’s a shame you don’t have any rough edges then isn’t it.” 

 

“Really Bahorel, how could you keep this woman a secret from us for so long? Anyone who can put you in your place is more than welcome here.” Musichetta laughs, tucking strands of Joly’s hair behind his ear where he’s leant against her shoulder.

 

Enjolras finds himself caught in the middle of a dozen conversations, attention drifting from Eponine and Bahorel, back towards Grantaire when Combeferre says

 

“So what do you do for a living Grantaire?”

 

Grantaire looks slightly shy at the question, rubbing the back of his neck as an indication of discomfort.

 

“I uh, work at a restaurant near the Eiffel Tower playing the piano.”

 

“The piano, how long have you been playing?”  Combeferre replies with obvious interest, fingers laced together.

 

“A while, I mean I started when I was fourteen to keep me out of trouble. So I guess it’s been about eleven years now.” 

 

“He is fantastic.” Jehan says, interrupting Grantaire’s growing awkwardness. “He’ll play it down whenever you ask but the music is probably the only reason I keep him as my flat mate”

 

“Not for my wit or good humor?”

 

“Especially not for your wit or good humor.”

 

Grantaire laughs and it’s a rich, wholesome sound that strikes something deep in the more explored region of Enjolras’ heart, something soft and covered in cobwebs. He can only stare in amazement. This man has posed the biggest puzzle and most amazing exterior that Enjolras had ever experience, and although their paths have only just crossed, he cannot help but think that if he were to dig deeper he’d find something golden buried within. That is, if he can get pass the initial, mildly hostile walls deflecting Enjolras at every turn.

 

Enjolras has never been the type to let go of things easily, and once the metaphorical fingers of his mind have latched onto the Rubik cube that is Grantaire, he would not be able to let go until all the colours where in line.

 

Once the peppermint tea has been drain and the glass teacup returned to the table, Eponine kisses Bahorel goodbye and places her hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

 

“C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.”

 

“I can take the bus.” Grantaire protests weakly, knowing he cannot win.

 

“Or you could sit in the passenger seat.” Grantaire sighs, rising from his chair and taking hold of Eponine’s forearm lightly. “Goodbye all, we’ll no doubt be returning in the near future.”

 

Enjolras watches as the pair makes their way back up the stair, up until the last boot heel disappears onto the upper floor. When he looks back to see Courfeyrac grinning at him with that all knowing look back in his eyes, he wonders, what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

 

 

 


	2. It Sounds Like You’re Asking Me To Dance

 

If there is one thing Enjolras knows he is lucky to have, it is his own apartment. A studio apartment surrounded by students and university parties and one too many of the people from his class living too nearby. But small and damp as it is Enjolras loves having his own space, away from his much loved friends where they cannot bug him into eating on a regular basis or to sleep at a respectable time. Combeferre and Joly lived two streets over and were a common appearance in the tiny rooms, but they were not a constant presence, a factor that could be considered either a blessing or a curse.

 

After three days of tough insomnia with only nine hours sleep over a seventy- two hour period, Enjolras had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, lying face down on his bed with his laptop still on stand by and sheets tangled around his legs. But of course, at one in the afternoon, after a good fourteen hours of semi-restless sleep, the phone rings somewhere deep within the pile of clothes on the floor.

 

Enjolras groans, burying his head in the pillow and turning over to face the window. The dialing stops, only to start up again moments later. Whoever it is, they do not accept being ignored. Flinging the blankets aside and stumbling over an empty bowl of cereal on the floor next to his bed, Enjolras fishes around for the jacket he was wearing the day before to find his phone vibrating in the chest pocket. He groans at the ID number.

 

“Enjolras darling.” His mother coos when the call is accepted. “Am I interrupting?”

 

“Only some precious hours of sleep.” Enjolras sighs, rubbing his eyes and hair. His body feels heavy and mouth tastes as if something has died inside

 

“You should really get some tablets to help with that. A young man such as yourself should not be having such troubles with sleep.”

 

“I’ve just been busy, it’s nothing to hassle the doctors with.” Padding out into the kitchen, he shoved bread into the toaster and pours instant coffee into the bottom of a mug. His plan to hibernate for the rest of the weekend had rapidly gone down the drain.

 

“Anyway, I’m calling to remind you that you’re having dinner with your father and I on Friday.” 

 

“I remember mother.”

 

“Good, then remember to wear something nice, we’re not going to some back street café where any old stray can wander in.” If it was any other day, Enjolras would have a word or two to say about said ‘any old stray’, but he’s too tired to deal with his mother’s upper class blinkers.

 

“Is there anything else mother?”

 

“No, but-” Enjolras hangs up before anything else can be said. Heavy traffic noise drifts through the cracked open window, coupled with the bubbling whistle of the boiling kettle and the smell of slowly toasting bread.

 

Sunlight seeping through the half parted curtains creates stripes of warmth on the flooring and furniture, and Enjolras sighs, taking his very late breakfast and flopping down on the ratty excuse for a couch. Thinking about dinner with his parents is not an option at that moment, so instead he tunes into a news channel, content to have a one-sided argument with the reporters for the rest of the day. He feels lazy on the days where he has actually slept the night instead of tossing and turning into the small hours, a state of relaxation so unfamiliar yet so craved for in the back of his mind.

 

*

 

Dinner with his parents is an irregular, never appreciated experience. Dressed in a tailored black suit that was given to him as a not very subtle way to persuade him into working for his dad after graduation, Enjolras takes the metro towards the centre of town, joining the tourists surrounding the Eiffel Tower. His hair is tied up into its normal loose bun, face freshly shaved and dabbed with a sweet smelling aftershave. Weaving through the tourists speaking languages he doesn’t recognize, Enjolras pushes open the door to a classy restaurant with a queue forming outside and is directed to a table in front of a large window with a view of the Tower.

 

“Enjolras honey, it’s so wonderful to see you.” His mother says, rising from her chair to cup his cheeks as she leans up to kiss him. Inwardly he cringes, disliking the fake affection that is only ever bought out in public; the image of the doting mother and her charming son.

 

“And you mother.”

 

Lying through his teeth is the only thing that can ease the passage through the dinner, that and ordering the simplest main course dish on the menu in the hope it can all end quickly.  Taking a seat next to the window opposite his parents, Enjolras pours himself a glass of wine from the bottle already on the table, marveling at the ruby red liquid that catches the amber spotlights. It seems they are one of the few tables of French speakers attending tonight, as business meetings and rich tourists chatter around them, English, German, Spanish, all words Enjolras cannot understand. It provides no route out of the conversation through eavesdropping.

 

“Enjolras” The stern voice of his father says, no sign of the fake affection shown by his wife. “Still working pocket change for that university?”

 

There was really no point wasting time when it came to scorning every life choice Enjolras had ever made.

 

“Yes, although I’m starting a teaching course at the start of the next school year and will be getting a place as assistant lecturer.” A lie, but what one doesn’t know can’t hurt them. It wasn’t like he hadn’t applied for the course or hadn’t had the conversation with Lamarque following the news of his part time retirement taking place next year. If the universe had any ounce of pity for him, it would make these lies true.

 

It earned a scoff regardless.

 

“I still think you should have studied law, you should have supported the family business instead and gallivanting across Paris with a no good politics degree and no aspiration to actually become a politician.”

 

Luckily the waiter comes to take their orders, allowing Enjolras a brief moment to compose himself and organize his responses into neat orderly lines in his head. He makes to glance at the clock but to his horror cannot see one in sight, so instead his takes a sip of wine and orders the simplest dish on the menu in the hope that it will get him out of there faster. 

 

“I wouldn’t say it’s gone completely to waste, after all, the politics degree comes in handy in regards to the ABC Society.”

 

“Ah yes, that activist club you run, have you actually achieved anything recently?”

 

Enjolras scowls; trying to keep control of his temper but his father has always known how to press the right buttons.

 

“Actually we raised a lot of money for a water aid charity on the weekend, and we’re starting a new campaign to provide support to under privileged students to get decent finical start.”

 

Drumming his fingers on his knee and grinding his teeth as his father scoffs, Enjolras does nothing to hide the glare. His father starts saying something about how they’ve provided everything for Enjolras, that he has never known what it is like to not be supported. But before he can open his mouth to say something about the fact his parents had in fact cut him off during the second year of university, his mother bursts in to change the topic, not willing to cause a scene in front of the whole restaurant floor.

 

“So is there any sign of a girl in your life Enjolras?” Sighing, Enjolras tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, growing more and more uncomfortable by the second. The food arrives to provide distraction, stabbing his fork into cooked pasta with more force than necessary.

 

“No.” There’s no point reminding her of the fact he’s not interested in girls and had only ever bought boys home on those rare occasions.

 

“Now that can’t be true, you’ve been attracting the gaze of quite a few women in here tonight.” A fact that Enjolras is well aware of, but hates with a passion. Being looked at like a piece of meat, or a product for sale by anyone brings no flattery in any form.

 

Thankfully the conversation moves onto the events taking places in his father’s very successful corporate law firm, allowing Enjolras to tune out so the voices are a muffled droning elsewhere in his subconscious, looking out at the couples eating al fresco in a restaurant across the street.  It reminds him of why Paris hold prime position in his heart, for it’s amber street lamps on wet paving stones, it’s winding streets and tall buildings rich in liberal history. The city of romance, of love Enjolras has never experienced aside from his love for the city itself and people in it. Maybe that is the best romance there is to be had.

 

The restaurant itself has live piano playing softly and simply in the background, providing a back drop for the idle chatter, elegant enough that it can be appreciated, but doesn’t become the centre of attention. Looking over towards the back of the room where the serving hatch is positioned, Enjolras looks at the piano sat in a dim spotlight, catching in the black hair of the pianist to create a crown of light. Enjolras scowls, straightening in his seat to try and see over the head of other dinners, but he can’t get a good look at who is playing. But he has a sneaking suspicion is already knows.

 

Excusing himself from the table, Enjolras weaves through the tables and chair, paying heed to the position of the other dinners and waiters navigating the floor. As the distance closes, he can see that it is in fact Grantaire sat at the piano, head ducked, fingers splayed, foot working the paddle with practiced ease that it’s second nature. He’s dressed as smartly as Enjolras, shirt, green waistcoat and fitting black trousers, cuffs undone to allow the free movement of his wrists. It occurs to Enjolras that Grantaire will not be able to look up and see him, will probably not be aware of his presence as engrossed as he is.

 

Rummaging around the inside pocket of the suit jacket for his wallet, Enjolras closes to gap, slipping euros into the small tip jar on top of the piano itself. The song wavers off, coming to a close only for a second to shift seamlessly into another with a minutest pause as possible.

 

“Hello” Enjolras says after gulping in breath, judging the moment just about right. Grantaire stops the song without it sounding too abrupt, looking in the direction of the voice with puzzlement tingeing his expression.

 

Mentally kicking himself, he adds rather lamely “It’s Enjolras”.

 

A smile spreads across the other’s face.

 

“Enjolras, I thought our paths wouldn’t cross until tomorrow evening, it seems you are premature.”

 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Enjolras suddenly has no idea why he’s stood here, or what he’s trying to accomplish from this conversation. There’s a part that knows exactly why he’s stood here, but being stubborn by nature means it goes unacknowledged.

 

“I’m here having dinner with my parents.”

 

“Judging by your tone you’re having a wonderful time.” The dry sarcasm is fresh and has Enjolras smiling. They look at each other in silence, Grantaire looking at only darkness whereas Enjolras can see the man’s fingers twitching restlessly on piano keys, can see the slightly hint of teeth as he bites briefly on his bottom lip. But before he can come to his senses and excuse himself to avoid the growing awkwardness, Grantaire stops Enjolras by saying

 

“My shift finishes soon, so if you want an escape route and don’t mind the half an hours walk you could possible help me get home?” It’s said with such a confidence that Enjolras can’t belief that he’s the one who is left speechless by the proposal. He is a political activist, a champion public speaker, and here he is, fucking speechless.

 

“Yeah, that would be great actually.” He forces out, refusing to be out done at something he does best, forcing down the childish part inside that instantly provides the possible unscripted meanings behind walking someone home.

 

“So, do you want to tell me where you are sitting or should we meet outside?”

 

“I’m sat at a window table so I should see you if you wait outside for me.”

 

Grantaire’s smile is as charming as ever, tapping out a few warm up notes on the ivory keys.

 

“Well…I should get back to work before they dock my tips.” Taking the hint, Enjolras says his goodbyes and makes a detour towards the men’s room. Taking a deep breath, he reties his hair, straightens his jacket and composes whatever wire has come loose in the tight knit machinery of his mind, refusing to act like some swooning teenage girl.

 

Luckily, he only has to sit with his parents for another half an hour, idly listening as his mother lists the qualities posed by the daughter of one of her friends, a daughter who is ‘staying in Paris to work in the fashion industry. She comes from a good background you know, charming young lady, well bread.’  Gazing out the window he can see Grantaire emerge from a door slightly further up the street, leaning against the wall and running fingers through his wild curls.

 

“You must excuse me. Thank you for the invitation and I believe this should cover my end of the bill.” Placing the euro notes on the table and leaving his wallet suitably empty, Enjolras rises from the table and breezes out the restaurant without waiting for neither a reply nor a goodbye. Instead, filled with all the confidence of an election winner approaching the podium, Enjolras walks up to Grantaire. This time his voice is recognized when he says

 

“Thanks for getting me out of there, I’m not sure how much longer I could have lasted.”

 

Grantaire laughs, cane propping up one elbow as he pushes away from the wall.

 

“No problem, I like to make myself useful. If you don’t mind…” Trailing off, Grantaire held out his hand, palm facing upwards with a timid expression flickering across his face. Enjolras blinks for a moment, before taking the hand in his, allowing Grantaire to maneuver them so their arms are linked, his hand holding onto his forearm.

 

“I trust you can lead?” Grantaire says after giving his address and folding up his cane.

 

“It sounds like you’re asking me to dance.”

 

“If that’s how you like to think about it then maybe I am.”

 

Enjolras laughs, feeling the warmth from Grantaire’s body seep through the fabric of his suit jacket. The pressure of his fingers digs softly just above his wrist. Despite the total removal of personal space between them, Enjolras feels comfortable, muscles relaxed for the first time that evening as they walked from the hive of tourism into a smaller side street, looking similar to the other romantic couples that walked arm in arm.

 

“My mother speaks about women like they’re show dogs. She’s trying to set me up with the daughter of one of her friends because she is ‘well bread’”

 

“I take it that your parents do not share you avid political activism, otherwise I’m sure they would use a different set of words.”

 

“Ah no, lets say my parents and I walk on opposite sides of the street. Besides, I’m not really interested in what my mother thinks is a suitable partner for me, she’s not a sound judge of character.”

 

“So you’re the rebel child then.”

 

“Something like that yeah.”

 

It feels strange to talk about his parents to a complete stranger. The topic of family is one barely discussed, even with the likes of Combeferre who he has been a friend with since childhood.  But there is something very approachable about Grantaire, something easy about the way they lean up against each other’s sides, and the way they can carry out a casual conversation that doesn’t revolve around politics beneath polluted stars.

 

Somewhere along the line, they end up holding hands, locked in the webbed spaces between their fingers seemingly unaware of the action. Enjolras notices the increased warmth after a while; unable to pinpoint the exact moments their hands came into contact. There is a moment of internal panic, knowing it would be rude to break the contact, knowing that Grantaire had already asked if he was okay with this. But yet again there’s a small nagging feeling wondering what it means to hold hands whilst walking someone home, in Paris, on a starry night. Suddenly he’s been transported into a bad romance novel or those film Courfeyrac likes. Their hands remain together all the same.

 

“You live here?” Enjolras asks, amusement seeping into the question. Grantaire grins, his expression knowing as he parts from Enjolras. Their hands slip from one another. Enjolras misses the contact instantly.

 

They’ve stopped in front of a tall building that looks slightly lopsided. The ground floor has a sign for a florists, with flowers filling the shop floor to the brim through the window. There are hanging plants spiralling down from the striped awning, with ivy climbing up the walls and there’s a secondhand bookshop and a café on either side.  A Juliet balcony is above the awning, one of the double doors open to let the small breeze shift the curtain. It’s picturesque.

 

“Jehan inherited it from his grandmother, and he’s a big flower freak so owning a florists suits him.” Grantaire chuckles as crosses the short distance to a green side door, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket for the key.

 

“So you live above the shop?”

 

“Yeah, it’s cozy.”

 

The door opens into a narrow hallway with stairs at the end, a small basket to collect post attached to the back of the door. Grantaire pauses in the doorway, one hand pressed against the wall.

 

“Thanks for walking me home, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

 

“It would be good to see you there…we also have meetings on Wednesday morning if you were interested.” Enjolras rubs the back of his neck, stuffing his other hand into his trouser pocket. Grantaire smiles, turning back inside.

 

“See you around Enjolras.” As always, no promise is made.

 

“Wait” Now he can’t remember why he said wait so instead he asks stupidly “Do you want help with the stairs?”

 

Grantaire’s cheek twitches, sighing with a small upturn of the corners of his lips.

 

“I’ve lived here for five years, I can handle some stairs. Goodnight Enjolras.”

 

The door shuts with a gentle click, and Enjolras shares at the marred green paint for a moment, wondering what the hell happened to his silver tongue.

 

*

 

“Have you been sleeping?” Combeferre says over his medical textbook, glasses sliding to the end of his nose.  They had gathered together before the meeting to do some last revision before Combeferre’s final exam next week, armed with flash cards and note pages.

 

Enjolras hums, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Today his hair is loose, wearing three quarter length trousers and a tight t-shirt, sunglasses acting as a hair band. The sun has been hotter than it has all summer, and due to the lack of sun cream, there’s probably a sunburn developing on the back of his neck. He waves a dismissive hand in answer to the question, sipping water and grabbing another flash card.

 

“Seriously Enjolras, how long did you sleep for last night?” Combeferre says in that no nonsense tone of his, pulling the flashcard away.

 

“I don’t know…three hours maybe?”

 

“And the night before?”

 

“Three and a half. I was dreading dinner with my parents.”

 

“How did that go?”

 

“Same as it always does.” He misses out the part with Grantaire, it isn’t important. Combeferre sighs, pushes his glasses back up and closes the textbook.

 

“Look, I know you’re not going to see a doctor about this because you’re stubborn, but you really need to establish a routine, try to relax before going to bed at a set time.”

 

“I’ve read the health sites Combeferre. Besides, it’s not a big deal, some people just sleep more than others.”

 

Combeferre hums unconvinced, but not willing to push the topic given the snappish mood Enjolras currently sat in. A combination of heat and lack of sleep made every muscle coil tight, tongue sharpened to a fine point as every slight movement irritated him to no end.  It’s difficult to persuade Enjolras as far as his own life is concerned even on the best of days, let alone now.

 

Rising from his seat Combeferre goes to get a refill on their drinks, knowing that the rest of the group will be arriving shortly, Enjolras pushes his laptop further up the table in order to place his head down in the vacant space.

 

“Looks like someone missed out on their beauty sleep.” Enjolras mumbles as Courfeyrac pets his hair softly, dragging Combeferre’s chair around the table to sit beside him.  “Rough night?”

 

“By my standards it was rather normal actually.” It had been a night spent wandering back and forth between the bed and the fridge, trying to watch one of the rom-com DVDs Courfeyrac had leant him as a joke in the hope it would send him to a bored sleep only to find himself enjoying it, and looking down at his hand before remember how stupid this whole thing is.

 

Lifting his head from the table when Combeferre returns with a sweetened iced coffee, Enjolras sighs, taking a long drink.

 

“So tonight’s line up looks a little like this.” Courfeyrac explains, tapping the table “Marius and Cosette are on a date so they won’t be here, Feuilly will be late as he’s stuck doing restoration work, but apart from that everyone will be coming.”

 

“Including Joly, who is probably going to flip when he sees the state you’re in.” Combeferre adds, gesturing to the drawn complexion of Enjolras’ face. He sighs exasperatedly. He’d probably check his mail tomorrow to find a dozen sleep clinic booklets stuffed into the box and six more slotted under his door. It had taken a week, a talk from Musichetta and a horrible weekend locked in her spare room which he wasn’t allowed out of until he had had a healthy amount of sleep.

 

Everyone is complaining about the heat as they come trundling down the stair, also complaining about the lack of windows in the basement. Today the meeting is actually going to happen, not like last week when it all turned into a social gathering, not like Wednesday when Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly turned up (even then, Combeferre and Joly had to leave early to go to the hospital for their internships.) He had spent the time last night not spent hunting through the fridge or cursing Courfeyrac, planning out the new long-term plan.

 

Jehan and Grantaire turn up last. Jehan looks radiant in what looks like a Aztec patterned playsuit, flip flops and hair cut shorter so it’s no longer long enough to braid, and Grantaire looking like he’d rather be someone else dressed in denim shorts with ripped edges that end at the knee and dark grey tank top.  There are aviators blocking the view of his eyes.

 

“Good evening everyone.” Jehan proclaims cheerfully, setting his fruit tea on the table.

 

“Good evening beau” Courfeyrac cheers back, catching Jehan’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles as he passes. Jehan blushes, ruffling Courfeyrac styled curls.

 

“Oh Enjolras, thank you for walking Grantaire home last night. I know he is perfectly capable of doing so himself, but I still worry.” Enjolras ignores the look Courfeyrac and Combeferre are giving him, waving a dismissive hand.

 

“It’s no problem.”

 

Jehan leans across the table, patting Enjolras’ hand before bounding off to talk to Bahorel who currently has a lap full of Eponine.

 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t” Enjolras says when he sees Courfeyrac’s mouth open, the start of some teasing comment resting on the tip of his tongue. At the tone, Courfeyrac shuts his mouth, holding up his hands in surrender with a grin Enjolras hates to see plastered on his face.

 

He glances up at Grantaire, who is talking to both Bossuet and Musichetta, fingers coils loosely around a cup of peppermint tea and he can’t help but think about the feeling of said fingers in his own. Shaking the thought away, Enjolras stands, ready to bring the meeting to a start.

 

Purposing the new idea of providing financial and social support to under privileged students searching to start university is met with a positive feedback, the freshly printed document with the initial plan clearly organized on the pages distributed to the group who flick through with intrigued expressions. They talk about finance, applying for sponsorships and fundraisers in order to build sturdy foundations for the plan to sit on, Enjolras saying he plans to speak to the university in the hope of establishing some kind of partnership once it is clear that the plan can go ahead.

 

“We could really help a lot of people with this.” Joly says, looking over the brief.

 

“Although I think I’m going to miss the rallies.” Bahorel says with a shrug.

 

“Don’t worry my friend” Enjolras say, patting his shoulder “There will be plenty of rallies still. Although we may become more focused on this new project there are still causes to be fought for. The fight against oppression is still on going, and we are not the type to take it lying down. The people need their speakers, and we are them.”

 

It’s the biggest project they’ve ever had, bigger than just protests and rallies and it will most likely become the forefront of the Societies agenda (that does not mean they won’t continue rallies against injustice, Enjolras has an overwhelming need of trying to save the world one cause at a time).  Bahorel grins, Enjolras clapping the flat of his hand over the other’s balled fisted, copying the smile. 

 

The group is in agreement; Enjolras can feel the fire inside of him electrifying any sense of tiredness and damn it if he’s going to sleep tonight when there is so much left to do. Look up across the room; his eyes catch Grantaire, who sits quietly, running his finger around the rim of the now empty teacup. The sunglasses are tucked into the neck of his tank top, expression hidden by the down turned angle of his face.

 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras calls “You have not given your opinion.”

 

Grantaire looks up, his expression totally blank as his hand retreats back towards his person.

 

“You would not like to hear it.”

 

“On the contrary, I would not have asked if I did not want to hear it.”

 

There’s a sigh, one that boards on irritated and exasperated.

 

“Look, I understand that what you are doing is a good thing. The ideas and concepts you have are admirable, but surely you cannot believe that a small group of post graduates can really change anything?”

 

Enjolras frowns, knowing it can’t be seen but his uncharacteristic silence conveys it all. But it does not seem that Grantaire can be bothered to pick up such things today, because he chuckles bitterly, leaning back in his chair.

 

“You want to provide, but by the sound of it none of you have enough money as it is. No one has enough money these days; the banks are going to support something that promises a return, not some charity. The same goes for universities; they may sprout nonsense about valuing education but really they value the euros in the pockets of rich parents.”

 

“But that’s the point of this, to help those who do value their education to fight against this system and get the opportunities they deserve. This is the step towards change, before there can be change there must be a fight.”

 

Enjolras can feel the bitter sting of disappointment rushing through him, and suddenly the snappish tiredness is back, making irritation tighten the strap around his brain so his heart beats just a little faster and his tongue feels sharp.

 

“Okay, then lets views it this way.” Grantaire says, holding out a hand as if to present an object “ You fight. You protest and you support, you scream at the top of your lungs. You are the not the first to do so, not the first to believe that you can change the world, but tell me Enjolras, do you see any of those over believers succeeding. Sure they may change something, make a minute contribution to the reformation of society, but ultimately it goes towards nothing because there will always be someone who is being stepped on no matter what.”

 

“So what do you suggest we do? Nothing?”

 

Without knowing it, Enjolras has crossed the room, so he’s now stood on the opposite side of the table from Grantaire. He knows his proximity is being felt, as Grantaire turns his face upwards to pin Enjolras with clouded eyes and a tilt of the neck. The slight pink flush dotting his cheek bones is nothing compared to the dangerous colour that is smeared across Enjolras’ expression, fueling by anger and something else that makes his heart twist painfully. He’s unaware that the whole room is staring at them. He places both hands on the table edge.

 

“See, the reason people keep getting oppressed is because people like you will do nothing about it.”

 

Grantaire scowls.

 

“You know nothing about me.”

 

“I know your type.” Enjolras sneers, a scene from the exact same conversation they had had the week before hand flickering across his mind. He’s too annoyed to wonder how it went from holding hands in dark Parisian streets to shouting at each other in the Musain. It seems Grantaire is aware of the repetition as well, as he rises to his feet, standing at the same height as Enjolras with arms crossed defensively over his chest.

 

“If I’m so transparent, then why did you ask for my opinion in the first place?”

 

‘ _I hoped for something more from you’_ Enjolras thinks sourly, biting his tongue hard. But before he can say it aloud, Jehan has hopped between them, a hand placed firmly on Grantaire’s arm. Combeferre has also approached, mirroring the action and muttering into Enjolras’ ear

 

“Now is the time to stop.”

 

Enjolras closes his eyes, taking a second to regain composure, but by the time he reopens his eyes, Grantaire is half way up the stairs with Jehan following closely at his heels.  Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Enjolras turns back to his seat as a conversation starts up timidly around him. Suddenly he feels exhausted, putting his head down upon folded arm in the hope that there will be dreams of handing holding instead of arguing. 


	3. Phone Me Anytime, You Don’t Have To But I’d Like It If You Did

With the beginning of the school holidays on the brink of the horizon, the university gives Enjolras a two week long holiday, leaving him with far too much spare time and little ways to fills the passing hours.  Sorting out the tables after Wednesday’s morning meet, he can’t help but feel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Grantaire is yet to make an appearance, or any kind of contact for that matter, since Saturday and something painful tugs at Enjolras’ bones, forcing him to rethink the event over and over in the dark hours. Staring up at the ceiling with only thoughts of Grantaire flicking through his subconscious had become a regular occurrence.

 

“Oh crap” Enjolras looks over his shoulder at the exclamation to where Courfeyrac is standing, wearing a suit with a coffee to go in one hand and a very obnoxious purple bag in the other. “Jehan’s left his bag.” 

 

Digging around for his phone, Enjolras can only watch as Courfeyrac sighs, looking mildly irritated whilst unceremoniously shoving the bag at Enjolras.

 

“Do me a favour and drop this to his apartment.”

 

Enjolras scowls, making no move to take said bag.

 

“Why?”

 

“Three reasons.” Courfeyrac says matter-of-factly, setting the coffee down to hold up his fingers “Firstly, I’m already late for work and I don’t want to be fired before my first actual case.  Secondly, I know that you know where he lives. Thirdly, you need something to do with your day.”

 

“Why can’t Jehan just come here and get it?” Enjolras grinds out. Thinking logically, delivering the bag to Jehan doesn’t put him out of sorts, it’s not like he has anything planned for the day. But he’s not in a cooperative mood having slept very restlessly the day before.

 

“He’s gone out of town to see some family. But Grantaire is at the apartment so he’ll take it.”

 

“Grantaire?” The name sends his stomach into spasm. Courfeyrac is looking at him with an arched eyebrow and an expression that knows too much but says too little.

 

“Problem?”

 

Crossing his arms defensively over his chest, Enjolras replies with a very stubborn “No”

 

“Good” It’s too cocky, too cheery, too much like Courfeyrac “Have a nice day Enjolras”

 

*

 

In all honesty, he hadn’t imagined climbing the hill towards what he had once heard Jehan fondly refer to as the ‘ivy house’, for quite some time and he certainly hadn’t imagined climbing it alone. The ghost of Grantaire’s hand has slotted itself between his fingers, warm and certain in its hold before falling away into nothingness.

 

The house looks even prettier in the sunshine, with a soft pastel petal bloom lining the warmed 19th century brick and plaster. Or at least it would if it hadn’t decided to pour down with rain during the journey over, leaving Enjolras to get drenched as he tries not to slip on the cobblestones. There are still ray of sunlight seeping through the rain clouds, painting a sheen onto the red awning and the pavement, making the surroundings look more like a watercolour painting as palette runs together.

 

Ducking under the awning, narrowly avoiding the stream of water running over the edge, Enjolras hesitates to press the doorbell. Despite the amount of recent time spent thinking about him, Enjolras realizes that in reality he knows nothing about Grantaire. Doesn’t know if he works on Wednesday morning, doesn’t know if he’ll be awake, doesn’t know if there’s even any likelihood of him answering the door. All he knows is how anger makes his neck tight, makes him prone to folding his arms defensively, how his fingers can never lie flat. Enjolras presses the doorbell.

 

It buzzes for a while before the button clicks and Grantaire’s voice sounds gravely through the speakers

 

“No you did not leave anything behind Jehan.”

 

“It’s not Jehan.”

 

Judging by the silence, Grantaire recognizes his voice through the distorted speakers.

 

“What are you doing here?” The tone is stony, making Enjolras’ own throat go tight and his finger falter on the speaker button.

 

“I…Jehan left his bag at the meet, Courfeyrac would have brought it by but he’s late for work so I’m here instead.” No mention is made about how secretly Enjolras wanted to see him, even if he had to be forced into doing so.

 

The speaker cuts off, leaving Enjolras to stand beneath the patter of rain with no idea whether or not he should just leave. Tapping the flat of his hand against the brick, Enjolras tightens his grip on the strap, debating the idea of just leaving the item on the doorstep and make a run for it.  He’s about to leave, offensive purple bag in hand, when the front door creaks open and Grantaire leans against the inner doorframe dressed like he’s just got out of bed with hair to match. The image squeezes Enjolras’ insides painfully.

 

“Here…I take it he doesn’t need it.” Enjolras says, holding the bag out at arms length before placing the strap in Grantaire’s upturned hand. Grantaire’s finger’s brush against his palm deliberately to gauge his presence.

 

“No, he came back after your meeting to get his case. He would have called by now if he had need for it.” Grantaire says slowly, frown forming a crease between his eyes.

 

Setting the bag down inside the hallway, he reaches forward to latch onto Enjolras’ wrist, gently tugging him forward. The touch acts as a tethering point, making the two steps forward smooth. Fingers push against the wet cuff of Enjolras’ jacket, pressing the dampness into Enjolras’ skin with the beginnings of a shiver forming at the centre of his spine.

 

“You’re soaked.” Grantaire states, his free hand twitching as if he’s internally debating another action.

 

“It’s raining” Enjolras replies, instantly cringing because of course Grantaire knows it’s raining, he can hear the heavy patter of water against window panes and pavement stones.

 

Grantaire chuckles, relinquishing Enjolras’ wrist and leaving a hot tingle in its wake. 

 

“Come on, you’ll get ill in the rain and I doubt your friend Joly would appreciate it if I just left you to it.”

 

With a smile forming on his lips, Enjolras follows Grantaire inside, bringing the door to a close behind him. He watches Grantaire’s hand wrap around the banister, the other hand tapping the wall with every step taken as if marking off a list. Of course Grantaire knows the exact number of steps to be taken, will know the floor plan of the apartment and the location of every bit of furniture off by heart like a 3D navigation system loaded into his head. It’s amazing really; how Grantaire moves seamlessly as if placing his feet into previously created foot holes.

 

 “Did you want to burrow some clothes? I assume we’re the same size?” Grantaire asks, walking between the sofa and the breakfast bar towards an open door at the opposite end of the room.

 

“Uh, no, a towel will be fine thanks.” Enjolras replies, clamping down on the potential rise in pitch as he thinks about wearing Grantaire’s clothes. They’d be larger on him, with Grantaire’s broader shoulder and slightly thicker waist. But they are the same height, and the fabric would be warm, comfortable, smelling of whatever powder they are washed in and whatever deodorant he chooses to wear…

 

And that train of through is interrupted by a towel being flung in his general direction, hitting Enjolras’ shoulder before falling lamely to his feet.

 

“Thanks” Enjolras calls, picking the towel off the floorboards and taking a moment to marvel at how immaculately tidy the apartment is. Everything is in its rightful place, no obstruction, no confusion, just persistent order to every catalogued item.

 

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand as he rounds the breakfast bar into the tiny kitchen unit to grab a plastic box of half eaten fruit salad from the fridge, a folk half submerged in the sticky juice inside.

 

“Do you mind if I make coffee?” Enjolras asks after towelling off, conscious of where he stands as to not get in the way.

 

“We only have instant but go ahead, mugs are in the far left cabinet and coffee is in the pot right of the kettle.” 

 

Although there are no windows in the living room, the rain beats hard enough against the brick and the bedroom window that the steady stream can be heard faintly beneath the whistling of the kettle.  The room itself is cosy, like a den; with a battered sofa covered with cushions and blankets, a television with houseplants balanced on top and framed photos on the wall. Grantaire is pretty much swallowed up as he sinks into the sofa cushions, a mix of ratty and ornate pillows caving in around him.

 

He sees Grantaire smile softly as Enjolras pours boiled water into the mug, watching through the gap over the counter as a deep inhale is taken. For a moment, Enjolras wonders if it’s simply the nice smell of coffee that makes the other’s limp visibly relax.  Wonders what it’s like, to take pleasure in such simple things that are so often overlooked. He glances up at a Polaroid taped to the cabinet door, an old one of Jehan, Grantaire, Eponine and a boy he doesn’t recognize, all gathered on a loveseat with glasses of beer and smiles.  Looking closer, he notices Grantaire is thinner, paler, but the darkness of the photo disrupts any of the clear distinction of his features.

 

“Are you okay?” Grantaire deadpans when Enjolras divers about the living room for a bit wondering if he should just sit down next to Grantaire or on the floor, or the coffee table or…

 

“Yes I’m fine.” He sits next to Grantaire. Grantaire’s legs are curled beneath him and his knees press on top of Enjolras’ thighs and their shoulders brush together.

 

Grantaire shrugs, stabbing a strawberry. This close, Enjolras notices the very faint scarring near Grantaire’s right tear duct, and another next to his ear. It’s intriguing and Enjolras wants to reach out and touch, brush the stray curls aside.

 

“Are you not angry at me?” It comes out before Enjolras fully registers it, a mix of fatigue and the strap around his gut forcing the words out. Grantaire frowns.

 

“Why should I be?”

 

“For what happened on Saturday.”

 

“Why? Are you sorry about it?”

 

A softer part of Enjolras wants to say yes…but his overriding stubborn tendencies decides there is nothing to apologise for, so instead settles for saying nothing. Grantaire looks at him, and like always Enjolras has that horrible feeling that although Grantaire is blind, the man can still see straight through him.

 

“I’m not angry.” Grantaire concludes after a moment’s silence, popping a chunk of melon in his mouth. “I was pissed off at first, but I got over it… are you still angry?”

 

“No” Perhaps it is said a little too quickly. Enjolras isn’t angry; maybe he’s still a little disappointed that they don’t walk the same pavement as it were, but the idea of any anger running between them makes something ache inside.

 

“Is that it?” Grantaire asks, setting the now empty plastic box aside. Enjolras flounders for a moment.

 

“I guess?”

 

Grantaire grins

 

“Good, because I want to listen to bad daytime television without the audio description.”

 

*

 

It starts off by watching cooking shows, the type that teach stay at home people how to make a one pot meals in half an hour. The host is always too jolly, wishing that their skills had amounted to something that’s less like a comical joke and more like a Michelin star.

 

“Tell me honestly, bearing in mind that I will use this as a judge of your character” Grantaire states gesturing in the direction of the television “Does the dish actually look as disastrous as it sounds?”

 

“Quite possibly more so actually, I think you’re getting off lucky here” Enjolras replies, screwing up his face and curling into one of the larger cushions. His feet rest against Grantaire’s knees as they cramp themselves on the tiny sofa.

 

“You’d think wouldn’t you, but then again, it’s impossible to describe what my imagination is forming right now.”

 

It ends with Enjolras being jerked out of sleep by a hand shaking his shoulder. Blinking the blurriness out of his eyes, Enjolras to see Grantaire leaning across the sofa, expression impossibly soft.

 

“You fell asleep.” Grantaire states as if sensing Enjolras’ confusion. The television has been turned off and the hammering of water against the windows has stopped entirely.

 

“How do you know I wasn’t just ignoring you?” Enjolras teases, end trailing off into a yawn as he uncurls. Grantaire chuckles.

 

“Your snores are really rather cute if you ask me.” 

 

Enjolras splutters in protest, but nothing comes of it but the rubbing of his eyes and stiffness in his bones. It’s possible that he feel even more dreadful that the days when he doesn’t sleep at all.

 

“Eponine and I are meeting in the café downstairs for food if you wanted to join us?” A question lies buried within the statement. The time is almost six and Enjolras hadn’t intended on staying this long.

 

“No, I think it’s best that I get going.” Enjolras says despite the itching in his bones urging him to attend. But the rational part of him is saying the whole idea is stupid, that whatever he is feeling is deniable and will fade soon, so there is little point in prolonging it.

 

A flash of disappointment flickers over Grantaire’s face.

 

“Okay…I’ll meet you Saturday then, unless I run into you before hand that is.”

 

“Sure, thanks for letting me stay for a bit.”

 

Grantaire shrugs with a charming smile, rising from the sofa to pad off into his bedroom to change out of sleepwear. Enjolras shows himself out with one last goodbye, with a tingling creeping up his spine.

 

*

 

“I should hate you.” Enjolras says down the phone to Courfeyrac later on that evening when he’s certain the young lawyer will no longer be held up with preparations for his case.

 

“I take it things went well with Grantaire then. Did you sort it out?” Courfeyrac drawls.

 

“Kind of.”

 

“Kind of?”

 

Enjolras runs fingers through his hair in frustration.

 

“I don’t know. We mentioned it briefly but we just kind of ended up watching bad daytime cooking shows”

 

There’s a silence and for a moment Enjolras cannot believe that his life has amounted to this.

 

“You watched a cooking show, with a blind guy?” Courfeyrac repeats as if to highlight everything bizarre with that sentence (given that Enjolras hates cooking and the physical possibility of Grantaire actually watching anything for that matter are pretty low)

 

“Okay, I watched, he listened, we made amusing commentary. Do you really want me to go into technicalities here?”

 

“I think that might just be the cutest story anyone has ever told me.” Courfeyrac coos, unaware of the whole falling asleep thing, which would just make the whole conversation spiral further downwards.

 

“No it’s not cute, it’s, it’s…” Words, that have always been so very loyal, are failing him. Courfeyrac laughs on the other end of the line.

 

“It seems you have some personal reflection to engage in here, so I’m going to go to bed.” It’s almost midnight; Enjolras had forgotten the last time he went to bed before then.

 

“I don’t know how but this is all your fault.” Enjolras says childishly, hanging up on Courfeyrac’s laugh.

 

He needs new friends.

 

*

 

Lying in bed, Enjolras can’t help but think about how easy it had been to unintentionally nap on Grantaire’s sofa. How comfortable it had been with their limbs having no choice but to touch when curled in the tiny space.  It was something new, something completely out of his mind scope that it sends his head into a spin.

 

Turning onto his side, Enjolras looks at the clock with a cosy warmth spreading through his heart and bed sheets curled between his fingers.

 

*

 

Saturday is a total flop. Having finished their finals, Combeferre, Joly and Cosette have made plans for the night, plans that are quickly latched onto by the likes of Courfeyrac and Bahorel and pretty much the entirety of the Society, meaning the plan fall flat on its face.

 

“Join us, it’ll be fun.” Cosette pleads, tugging on Enjolras’ arm. She’s looking gorgeous in a pale pink cocktail dress, with matching high heels and hair styled messily.

 

“I’ll be fine here. I’ve got some work to do anyway.” Enjolras says scrunching up his face. It’s not that he’s apposed to going out, it’ s just, Saturday is meeting day and the thought of the Cause being replaced with the bottle annoys him to no end.

 

“Come on, you look so very pretty and you deserve a break.”  Delicate fingers pinch his cheek, earning a pout and a scowl.

 

“Please, I think you should be paying a bit more attention to your admirer over there” Marius has been staring at Cosette since she walked in with Combeferre at her arm, an alarming blush painting his cheeks. 

“We’ll see, I think it might be good to keep a distance tonight.”

 

“Trouble in paradise?” This is the reason why Enjolras doesn’t mind talking about love life with Cosette, she didn’t over dramatize or wax poetically to the point of ridiculousness like Marius.

 

She waves a hand, saying they’ll talk about it later before flouncing off to talk to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, who seems to be in high spirits despite the absence of the current object of perusal, then again, Courfeyrac has never been one for pining.

 

Last to enter are Bahorel and Eponine, dressed up for a night of clubbing. Enjolras perks up at the sight of them, watching the stairs eagerly, waiting for a familiar mop of curls to emerge. Maybe, if Grantaire were willing, Enjolras would join them, sit with him in the booth and continue their debate about society in a friendlier manner than before. But Grantaire doesn’t show up, and it’s Eponine who is leaning up against the table next to him.

 

“He’s sorry he can’t make it.” She says, eyebrows arching.

 

“What happened?” His intrigue is genuine, and it’s intrigue not worry, there is no reason to worry. Eponine sighs.

 

“Grantaire can get like this sometimes, he’ll be fine for a while and then you purpose the idea of leaving the house and he will avoid the situation entirely. I mean, R has a problem with cars so actually getting him to shift his weight normally is difficult, but when he’s having a moment it’s impossible.” She rests a hand on Enjolras’ arm. “He’s genuinely sorry, he really is, he wanted me to give you this.”

 

She dips her hand beneath the bust of her dress to pull her purse from her bra, rummaging to hand Enjolras a small slip of paper.

 

“Said you should call him sometime.” Enjolras stares down at the eleven digits, conflicted between disappointment and that tight warm feeling once again. Grantaire may not be here, but right there in his hand is a link between them, something that can tie them together a little tighter.

 

“Thanks.” Enjolras mutters, pocketing the slip of paper.  Maybe the easiness of sitting in the living room on Wednesday hadn’t been as easy as Enjolras had lead himself to believe, maybe this is sending his judgement into disarray and this whole thing is ridiculous. (This is something he mulls over on both the journey to the bar and whilst sitting at the table with Bossuet babbling in his ear until he eventually leaves)

 

“You’re sulking”

 

“I’m not”

 

“You’re in denial then”

 

It’s Combeferre who is sat next to him, having set his beer on the table. At least it’s not Courfeyrac, which is a small blessing. Enjolras says nothing, not wishing to confirm or deny a statement that he doesn’t know the answer to.

 

“What’s going on Enjolras?” Of course, Combeferre hasn’t really met Grantaire aside from witnessing their argument, hasn’t seem them interact enough to properly pinpoint anything (yet another small blessing).

 

“I don’t know Combeferre.”

 

Combeferre looks sympathetic, patting his hand over Enjolras’.

 

“You’re smart, I’m sure you’ll figure out whatever it is. But for now you need to stop sulking.”

 

Smiling, Enjolras downs the last of his beer before standing and making his way towards the bar. He listens as Combeferre and Joly tell stories from their work placements and times spent in the lab, Joly leaning against Musichetta who has one arm slung over his shoulders. He even gets into a debate with the bar tenders, with Feuilly, as his second about the recent legalization of gay marriage (a debate which results in two free drinks and the really rather good looking bar tender trying to give Enjolras his number)

 

But all the time he feels the weight of his phone in his back pocket, getting the slim black object out every now and again to look at the illuminated screen in deliberation. He won’t call Grantaire when he’s slightly buzzed, he won’t, he really won’t …

 

*

 

“Hey Grantaire this is Enjolras, you gave me your number so I thought I should call or something to let you know Eponine gave me your message, but you’re not picking up so… yeah, I’ll ring back at some other time. Oh and I’m not angry or anything; maybe a little disappointed, then again that’s partly to do with how you confuse me, but there’s no point saying that over a message so I’ll ring later. Or if you want to phone me anytime, you don’t have to but I’d like it if you did. Anyway if you wanted my number is….” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but I needed to post something so here you go. Thanks for all the awesome feedback you guys have given me, especially over on my tumblr, it's great to know you like reading this as I do writing it.


	4. Songs To Have A Revolution To

 

There are moments, moments like now, when one realises they might just spend way too much time sitting in various cafés around Paris. It’s ridiculous really, considering the way they have always complained about never having any money since university; but despite all this they still manage to scrape together pocket change for coffee.  This café hoards the construction workers developing a new apartment block around the corner, meaning it’s cheap and has free wifi and the tabletops are covered with a pale yellow sticky plastic sheet.

 

“Herbal tea and low fat fruit yoghurt.” Combeferre places the order down in front of Enjolras before sliding into the opposite seat. 

 

Now with the academia on hold for a few months, the pair suddenly has time to spare for one another, starting with a morning run. They’ve already ran a few miles and will taking a short cut through the park on the way back to the building they live in. Enjolras unties and reties his hair in a sloppy ponytail, dropping fruit chunks into the bowl of yoghurt. On the table next to them, a group of women glance their way; one sucking rather suggestively on her straw when Enjolras looks up to accidentally catch her eyes. His jaw twitches, quickly looking from the woman back to Combeferre who glances over a newspaper left on the table by the previous occupant.

 

“Did Feuilly tell you about the protest this weekend?” Combeferre says after swallowing a mouth full of sandwich with the help of his coffee.

 

“Not yet.” Enjolras replies, taking the time to quickly check his phone. He trusts Feuilly would let him know time.

 

“Well, technically it’s Bahorel’s protest. Apparently both he and Feuilly and the people they work with are getting wage cuts for no given reason, which is ridiculous seeing as they already get paid little.” Both Feuilly and Bahorel worked as labourers, from carpentry to brick laying, they are hired through a firm that advertised their skills for a payment of 30% of their earnings from whatever job they secure through the agency. ‘Wage cut’ probably meant that said percentage was being increased meaning after tax deductions very little money per job was being received.

 

“What have they set up?”

 

“They’ve managed to get the majority of people signed up to the firm, as well as a few of the administrators for the firm itself, to strike. I think it’s meant to be peaceful but whether or not that will last I don’t know.”

 

“Speakers?”

 

“Feuilly of course, and I’m sure Bahorel will have something to add as well.”

 

Feuilly is really quite the fantastic speaker, one that Enjolras admires with earnest. Whilst Enjolras could speak words on par with governors, Feuilly was the embodiment of the everyday man, his words a beautiful mix of slang and eloquence.

 

“Well, we’ll certainly take a visit. Even if it is as moral support.”

 

Combeferre snorts

 

“You mean so you can help hijack the event. Don’t worry; I’m sure if they didn’t want you there they wouldn’t have told me about it. In fact, if they didn’t want you there they probably would have filed a formal complaint rather than a strike.”

 

Enjolras gives an amused huff, running a strawberry around the bottom of the bowl to catch the last of the yoghurt. Stretching out his hamstring beneath the table, Enjolras checks his phone once more, seeing that his answering machine is empty and there are no notifications for missed calls. He had debated calling Grantaire again, but following the voice message he is well aware that calling really isn’t the best option.

 

“You ready to go?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Combeferre folds up the newspaper and puts his glasses in his pocket.

 

“Are you ready to go?”

 

“Yeah, let’s go”

 

There is a gentle breeze cooling the morning heat, making the run a little less laborious. They cut through the park near the university, a typical location for their rallies, where small groups of people lounge on the grass amongst a small cluster of trees. Taking the path that divides the patch of grass in two, Enjolras steadies his breathing, matching his pace to the song playing through his earphones. Combeferre jogs at his side, a comforting and steady presence.  They’re half way through the park, when Combeferre grabs Enjolras’ shoulder, stopping the pace instantly, earphones falling out and swinging uselessly around his collar.

 

“We’re being waved at.” Combeferre says, gesturing over to where Jehan, Courfeyrac and Grantaire are sprawled out in the grass, the recently returned of the gathering waving the two of them over. “Come on”

 

Combeferre takes off across the grass, whilst Enjolras lingers slightly behind. His eyes are on Grantaire, who lies in the grass with his head in Jehan’s lap, strings of daisies being weaved into his hair. There is a feeling of apprehension considering the answer phone message and the lack of reply, also because the slip of skin where Grantaire’s tank top has ridden up it proving to be distracting. 

 

“Enjoying your run?” Courfeyrac calls out to them, reaching to grab Combeferre’s wrist and dragging him to the grass.

 

“I always do.” Combeferre smiles, readjusting his legs “How was your trip Jehan?”

 

“Visiting the countryside is always delightful, you should all come sometime. My grandfather has a beautiful chalet and is always starved for company”

 

“He also cooks a mean ragu and is a big fan of burning incense sticks.” Grantaire adds, twirling pieces of grass between his fingers. 

 

“I visit my grandfather every few months after my nana passed away, you know, to check up on him” Jehan explains, pushing Grantaire into a sitting position to admire his handy work.

 

“Wonderful as always, now if you would my dear, I wish to look as pretty as R.” Courfeyrac says, stealing a kiss from Jehan before filling Grantaire’s vacated spot. Enjolras briefly wonders when that happened, but knowing Courfeyrac, they had probably reached that stage pretty quickly. It’s cute really; even he has to admit it.

 

“Enjolras will you please sit down, we won’t be leaving any time soon.” Combeferre sighs, lying on his back and shielding his eyes from the sun with his elbow. Enjolras sits down between Combeferre and Grantaire, wiping sweat off his forehead and letting his hair fall loose. He turns down the volume of his ipod and sticks one of the two earphone back in.

 

“Oh guys, do you have any plans tonight?” Jehan suddenly announces, flapping one hand in the air. Grantaire looks over towards Jehan, shaking his head slightly.

 

“No, why?” Combeferre replies.

 

“Grantaire got himself a part time job down at some jazz bar that recently opened, we’re going to hear him play tonight.” Jehan says with pride swelling around the edges of the words, ignoring his friend entirely. “I was thinking you should tell the others and we can all go out. Not being rude of anything, but you guys don’t really seem to do anything together outside charity work”

 

Grantaire sighs, putting his head in his hands.

 

“You really don’t have to trouble yourselves, it’s just another job.”

 

“But it isn’t is it. You’re always going on about how you hate playing slow background music whilst people eat food. At this place, people are actually going for the music.”

 

“And it’s really no trouble. You’re our friend, we’d like to hear you play.” Combeferre adds, programming the event into his phone as the details are given.

 

Enjolras fidgets uncomfortably, wanting to say something but not knowing what to say. Luckily Combeferre saves him by bringing up the topic of Feuilly and Bahorel’s protest, a topic that Enjolras can fully get involved in. Jehan also gets involved with the discussion, making him even more endearing to Enjolras who up to this point hadn’t heard any of the poet’s political views.  Grantaire snorts at the whole idea, muttering something about how striking is so very typically French of them and if said firm actually gave a damn they wouldn’t of change the salary in the first place.

 

Before Enjolras can progress from glare in futile to arguing, Grantaire asks if anyone wants something from the corner shop across the street before strolling off with Courfeyrac linked in one arm and cane in the other, leaving Enjolras to fume silently.

 

There is a moment’s apprehension when he remembers just what Courfeyrac is like, and that there is a likeness that he currently has that stupid smirk on his smug face, and is whispering words about the crush Enjolras definitely doesn’t, have into Grantaire’s ear. Then again, it’ll be Courfeyrac’s loss, because there is no crush of any kind between them. Nothing Enjolras finds appealing about untamed curls, frosted eyes, warm long fingers that stroke keys and brush fabric and he really isn’t thinking about what it might be like to have Grantaire’s fingers buried in his hair.

 

Fascination is allowed, Grantaire is like nothing he has ever experienced, that doesn’t mean he has a crush.

 

Combeferre is looking at him strangely when Enjolras shakes off the image of hands, a look that also goes ignored, along with the smug smile Courfeyrac has on his face when the pair emerge from across the street with a plastic bag between them.

 

“Strawberry milkshake for my man, water for the intellect, lemonade for the freedom fighter and grape juice for the musician.”

 

“And for the idiot?”

 

“Ha. But if you must know, it’s diet coke.”

 

Sighing, Enjolras snaps the can and lies back in the grass, one arm folded behind his head. The sun bakes his skin, and the thin running t-shirt is sticking to his torso. It is a rare moment of relaxation between being exhausted or stressed or angry at everything that goes on, the casual conversation between friends humming beneath the music playing through the earphones.

 

A hand pats against his arm. Opening his eyes, Enjolras looks up to see Grantaire sat next to him, backed by yellowed light.

 

“Care to share?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Your music, lend me an earphone.”

 

Adjusting to lie on his side, propped up on an elbow, Enjolras passes an earphone over, watching as Grantaire shifts to lie on his back and accept the small white bud.

 

“The Vaccines.” Grantaire says with smile  “I have to admit it isn’t what I thought you’d listen to.”

 

“What did you thing I _would_ be listening to?”

 

“I don’t know, you strike me as an opera person.” Enjolras laughs. “No, it’s just, when you speak you sound very academic to the point where dramatic opera should be playing in the background.”

 

“Well you’ll be disappointed to know that I dislike opera with a passion.”

 

“Oh really? Then tell me Enjolras, what do you like?” If one was to pay attention to the slight dip in tone, the lazy roll of the head so that blind eyes look towards what they wish they could see, one might just realise that there is an element flirting to the question. But Enjolras, as great as he is at socializing, doesn’t pick up on the less obvious approach that is vastly different from the forms of flirting he’s experienced in the past.

 

Enjolras scrolls through the tracks, picking out songs which Grantaire would comment on if he recognized them…and would comment on them even if he didn’t. Speaking of riffs, chords, piano melodies, even vocals despite admitting he knew nothing about them. He tapped out beats on Enjolras’ arm, laughing when Enjolras admitted he had a playlist called ‘song to have a revolution to’. 

 

“There’s an awful lot of Muse on here.” Grantaire states after the fifth Muse song in a row pops on shuffle. He has one hand lying on Enjolras’ forearm and the other tangled in the grass, eyes closed against the world.

 

“Problem?”

 

“No, no, it’s quite suiting actually. Although I think you could spice it up with a little Karl Jenkins' Palladio: I Allegretto. If there were one song to have a revolution to it would be that. No, I lie, Unstoppable by E.S Posthumus, but that is more for the catalyst…when you are truly storming the Bastille or chopping of the head of the King.”

 

“Duly noted.” Enjolras remark, even though he is beaming with the mention of the French Revolution, that wasn’t something along the lines of ‘ _what exactly did our ancestors achieve by this ultimately? Liberty? I think not.’_

Judging by the slight quirk of the corner of his lip, Grantaire could sense the beaming like it was the shining of the sun.

 

*

 

Feuilly does eventually call about the protest later on that evening, once Enjolras has showered and is standing in a towel in front of the wardrobe, wondering what on earth to wear.

 

“I take it Combeferre told you.”

 

“He did indeed, and I apologize for not calling sooner.”

 

“You’ll be there Saturday then?”

 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have you prepared a speech?”

 

“I’m working on it, in fact I was wondering if we could perhaps go over it on Friday night before the protest. And you’re welcome to contribute which I have no doubt you will. I have no trouble sharing the lime light.”

 

“Nonsense, you understand the situation better than I, you’ll be speaking to people you know and understand. I’ll rally from the side lines, maybe shout something about the drain of capitalism on society”

 

Feuilly chuckles through the speaker.

 

“Thanks.... Are you invited to R’s thing tonight?”

 

“Yes, and you?”

 

“Of course; me, Bahorel, Eponine went out Sunday night and saw Jehan and Grantaire there having drinks, to which Jehan invited us all along.”

 

“Good” Enjolras says, pushing away the uncomfortable feeling of being one of the last people to know about the whole thing, wondering why Grantaire didn’t call to tell the news before remembering the answer message he had left. But then confusion arrived, as earlier today Grantaire didn’t even bring it up surprisingly enough, so maybe he didn’t receive it? Or maybe he had ignored it? Or maybe he just didn’t care; Enjolras couldn’t decide which was better.

 

“What should I wear?” He asks to break the train of thought.

 

“You’re seriously asking me that question” Feuilly sighs “It’s smart casual, wear something…I don’t know, smart casual.” And with that unhelpful advice, Feuilly hangs up before either more questions or sarcasm can be delivered.

 

Shifting through clothes hangers and draws, Enjolras eventually decides on jeans with a pale blue shirt and jacket and so what if he spends an extra minute in the bathroom fussing with his hair or deciding which cologne to wear (both of which he got for Christmas and has never really worn.)

 

The sun is setting and the evening is crisp, the metro not as crowded as it could be. The bar is up a narrow side street near a collection of jewellers and leather works. The others are waiting on the cobbles outside, chattering away whilst coupled with their respected partners, Combeferre checking his phone whilst Feuilly natters in his ear.

 

“About time.” Courfeyrac calls out “Now all we’re waiting for are Marius and Cosette.”

 

“Seeing as most of us are near we should probably go inside,” Combeferre suggests, which everyone whole-heartedly agrees upon.

 

Inside, they’re shown to side-by-side booths holding six people each, with circular tables with tea lights in the centre. It’s dimly lit, with the majority of the emphasis is drawn towards the brightly lit stage and bar area. Grantaire is already behind the piano, tapping out slower warm up melodies, dressed in shirt and waistcoat with unruly curls gathered back into a very short ponytail at the base of his skull (which is ultimately futile as thick locks have come loose around his face).

 

“I’m so excited.” Jehan says practically jittering in his seat “He’s always wanted to do stuff like this. Now all he needs is for his own composures to be recognized.”

 

“He composes?” It’s Combeferre who asks.

 

“Not as much as he used to, although recently it’s a more common occurrence.” Jehan says, sliding his gaze towards Enjolras with his eyebrows raised suggestively, a look Enjolras can neither comprehend nor decipher so chooses to ignore.

 

The bar starts filling up, breaking in an impressive turn out for the opening night. Cosette and Marius come later, Cosette tense and Marius looking defeated, which are typical indicators that they’ve had an argument. Shown even more so when Cosette shoos Marius to sit in a separate booth to her. But lingering on Marius’ sulking at the edge of the table is short lived as the band comes on stage, taking a few moments to sort out their instruments. Grantaire shifts into a slightly bouncier rhythm as the floor manager welcomes them for the night. 

 

They open with a rendition of ‘The Best is yet to Come” and from that moment the event is sold.

 

 Enjolras can’t help but keep his eyes glued to Grantaire, no matter how beautiful the lead female singer is in a sleek deep purple full length gown, it’s Grantaire who attracts all of Enjolras’ attention. His fingers are moving faster than they had back at the restaurant where he first played, his whole body moving with the tune as if it had become emerged in a deep ocean, given no choice but to travel with the gentle current. Enjolras thinks of long fingers tapping out beats on his bare skin.

 

Combeferre is giving him this look, which is almost as annoying as that look Courfeyrac gives him at all the wrong moments.

 

“So this is what you’re in denial about.” Combeferre says not unkindly, softly enough not to draw the others attention (not that Courfeyrac would latch on the way he’s almost wrapped himself around Jehan, and Marius is too piece ripping a napkin into shreds to notice)

 

“What’s our leader in denial about?” But of course they’ve forgotten about Feuilly sat on the other side of Enjolras, who inserts himself into the conversation.

 

“Nothing, I’m not in denial about anything.” Enjolras say the same time Combeferre says “Grantaire”

 

Downing the last of his wine, Enjolras waves a hand to order another glass.

 

“Please Enjolras, I haven’t seen you this distracted by another person ever, not even with that good looking TA you followed around for the majority of the second year of university.” Combeferre says, causing Enjolras to blush at the memory.

 

“So is this pining? Are you pining Enjolras?”

 

“No”

 

“Yes”

 

Enjolras glares at Combeferre

 

“Since when were you made the official spokesperson on this matter?”

 

“Since you’re inability to form words on the subject.”

 

 “Well then, can we please not talk about this right now.”

 

The song changes from a Nina Simone song to a saxophone solo, giving the other musicians a change to stretch out their wrists and drink water from clear plastic bottles. Grantaire rolls his shoulders, taking a moment to position his fingers in time for the fast piano solo that follows, something that amazes Enjolras and sends a tingling running through his spine.

 

The set ends with a repeat of ‘The Best is yet to Come’, welcoming in a huge round of applauds. The band pack up, allowing a second band sans singer, that will play until the bar closes at 3am, to take the floor. The female singer pats Grantaire’s shoulder as they exchange smiles, standing with arms linked. She leads him through the bar over to them; were Jehan is waving a hand with a huge grin on his face.

 

“You were fantastic.” Jehan says delighted, pushing out of the booth to pull him into an embrace.

 

“And you have a marvellous voice.” Combeferre addresses the singer before she can leave, drawing her into conversation.

 

“Do you want a drink or anything?” Courfeyrac asks, slapping a hand against Grantaire’s back as he gets up, taking orders for the next round.

 

“Uh, I’m just going to get some air actually, but water will be fine.”  Grantaire says, using his cane to navigate towards the front door. Enjolras waits, tapping his hands on his knees before giving into temptation and excusing himself from the table.

 

Outside it is cooler, with a muffled sound of the bar coming through the open door. Grantaire is sat on the doorstep of the jeweller’s shop, the rich golden light illuminating the display case highlighting his skin, which is washed with a slight tan from where he had caught the sun earlier that day.  Enjolras takes a seat on the step besides him, their sides pressed together.

 

“Bars make me uncomfortable and right now I’m really wishing I hadn’t given up smoking.” Grantaire admits, fidgeting with unease.

 

“Jehan was right you know, you were really good.” Enjolras says, wanting to take one of Grantaire’s shaking hands in his own.

 

Grantaire sighs, pulling the elastic band out his hair and running his fingers through it.  There a moment of silence until Grantaire scowls.

 

“I confuse you?” Enjolras feels the bottom of his stomach fall through because obviously his message hadn’t been ignored after all.

 

“What?” He splutters, watching as Grantaire stands and starts pacing two steps up and down in front of him.

 

“You know at first, I was annoyed because really, you have no right to be disappointed with me. But then I figured that maybe I had gotten the wrong idea because I really don’t understand anything about that answer phone message. So I repeat, I confuse you?”

 

“I didn’t realise you had received it.” Enjolras mutters.

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“Okay.” Enjolras stands “I admit it, you confuse me. Ever since you came out of nowhere and into my life, everything about you has confused me”

 

Grantaire looks offended which is understandable, opening his mouth to retaliate when Enjolras stops him with a hand on his bicep.

 

“I don’t know why. You are like nothing I’ve experienced and it frustrates me because I can talk to huge crowds of people but I don’t know how to talk to you.” That wasn’t really what he had meant to say, even if it is true, and maybe Combeferre had been right about the inability to form words.

 

“Am I meant to apologize for that?” Grantaire bites, and Enjolras can feel the situation slipping through his fingers (not that he had a very tight grasp on it to begin with)

 

“No, I don’t want you to apologize”

 

“Then what the hell do you want from me?”

 

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth, fishing the air for words to say but coming up with blanks. He sighs in defeat.

 

“I don’t know”

 

Grantaire bites his lip, shaking his head before holding up both hands.

 

“I can’t do this right now, when we’ve figure out how to talk to one another …” Grantaire trails off. “Look, just tell Jehan I’ve gone home.”

 

“Do you need-”

 

“I can get home by myself Enjolras, I’m not incapable.” Grantaire snap, leaving Enjolras behind as he walks away.

 

*

 

Admittedly, he’s spent the majority of the evening moping around the bar, continuing said moping in the street and all the way up to his apartment. Now it’s four in the morning and he can’t sleep, lying in bed staring up at the ceiling with restlessness in his bones. He knows what it is, can feel is curling in his stomach, but ignores it, feeling too glum to see to any bodily urges, and eventually falling asleep an hour later.

 

He wakes up feeling flustered, tangled in the sheets with an impressive erection pushing against the fabric of his underwear. He can’t remember exactly what he had dreamt of, but it had obviously resulted in this situation at 8am, feeling exhausted and uncomfortable.

 

Courfeyrac had once said, when the mild insomnia first started, that getting off was a great way to fall asleep, something which Enjolras had glared at his friend for mentioning. But right now, the idea seemed plausible and somewhat inviting. Running a hand downwards, Enjolras curls his fingers around his cock through the fabric, releasing a shaky exhale at the almost instant feel of relief the action gives him. It’s been so long, so long since he’s had sex, since he’s gotten off and by god is he in need of it.

 

Tossing off the tangled duvet cover and kicking off the underwear, Enjolras adjusts his grip, stroking in a steady rhythm to suit the early morning. There’s muffled daylight splattering the floor and the curtains are billows in the breeze and the heat pooling in the bottom of his stomach is deliciously good, causing his toes to curl and drag against the sheets.

 

Eyes fluttering shut, Enjolras sorts through the images in his head, imagining long fingers replacing his own, damp with lube to ease the friction. Long fingers, picking him apart slowly, twisting the grip before thumbing the slit of his cock, forcing Enjolras to bite his lip to stop the whimpering. Ever so slightly tanned fingers, one that are used to tapping out piano melodies, stroking him faster now, grip loosening as Enjolras bucks his hips up to fuck into his palm, stomach muscle clenching as he arches into the grip.

 

He moves his free hand to pinch his nipple hard, emitting a stifled moan and racking blunt nails down his side. He imagines teeth at his neck, a tight grip bruising his hipbone and tongue lapping at his nipples. Imagines looking down to see a mop of black hair with the weight of another’s body pressing him down into the mattress, warm and suffocating but wonderful all the same as their hips grind together. In the haze, Enjolras can’t bring himself to admit that he’s imagining a very familiar pianist doing these things to him, can’t think beyond how good it all feels, smearing precome over his thumb and down his length.

 

“Fuck” He breathes shakily, head thrown back against the pillow as he bucks into his hand, finding a rhythm between the pumping of his fist around his cock and the jerk of his hips. Heels digging into the edge of the duvet where it’s balled up against the footboard of the too short bed, Enjolras knows he isn’t going to last long.

 

Behind closed eyes, he can imagine clinging to Grantaire, nails digging into his back as he pants in short sharp bursts. Can imagine writhing, fucking into Grantaire’s fist, wanting more as he desperately seeks out friction and it’s obscene in everyway. But he wants it so badly, can feel the pressure in his limbs, a burning right in the pit of his stomach, which is mostly to do with arousal, but partly to do with the desire kept lurking beneath the surface.

 

Pumping his cock faster, squeeze just a little harder; Enjolras comes harder than he has in a long time, shooting streaks onto his stomach and over his hand. He moans into his arm, lips parted, eyes screwed shut with throat bared. A flush illuminates his cheeks and speckles his neck; hair fanned out in a halo on the pillow and a feeling of instant satisfaction floods his veins, sending them singing in time with the fast beating of heart and the ragged edge of his breathing.

 

Peeling away from the mattress, Enjolras pads towards the bathroom, naked with legs feeling a little too weak. The exhaustion is still there, but the restlessness and the glumness has evaporated. Cleaning up with a tissue and splashing his face with cold water, Enjolras looks up into the mirror and with the last fragmented images of Grantaire flicking in his mind, he can’t help but think about how well and truly fucked he really is.

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I didn't necessarily warn that this fic would have sexual content, but oh look, I suppose it does. I'm not so happy with it as it didn't fit as smoothly as I planned , but what the hell, it's all done now
> 
> oh and here's a soundtrack of sorts 
> 
> [The Vacciness song Enjolras was listening to ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyP_t1CI5oI)
> 
> [ Karl Jenkins' Palladio: I Allegretto ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4M2gH_sxDo)
> 
> [Unstoppable by E.S Posthusmus](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoaUYcwEpSw)    
> 
> [One of the Muse songs](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rYDuNq-a5b4) on Enjolras' iPod (let's admit it, the majority of Muse songs should make you want to overthrow the government anyway) 
> 
> (and here are some from the jazz session, not all of which are mentioned but i listened to whilst writing it) 
> 
> "[The Best Is Yet to Come](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mb3wHcQOl4M)' 
> 
> '[I Put A Spell On You' ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-2cZSsb86Y)
> 
> ['I've Got My Love to Keep Me War](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lInbLxRra38&playnext=1&list=AL94UKMTqg-9ATJEsFTV1DIfU-qC7jxz3_)m' 
> 
> '[Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eraOhezY23s)' (head up this song right here is pretty much the theme tune to this fic and will emerge in later fics) 
> 
> There will be, without a doubt, mentions of other songs in the future so there's always more to come. 


	5. Provisional Selection For Redundancy

“Eponine is over at Bahorel’s, and there’s no way in hell I’m going over there without a formal invitation, so you’re going to sit down, listen to me complain and somehow come up with some plausible advice.”

 

Cosette announces when the door opens, striding through the threshold and throwing her bag onto the floor before flopping onto the sofa. Enjolras blinks at the now empty doorway for a moment, slowly pushing the door shut.

 

“Come in then Cosette.” He mutters, hoping the sarcasm is noticeable as he follows after her into the kitchen to brew tea, upturning two mugs on the counter. Cosette sighs loudly, plumping up a cushion with more force than necessary.

 

“Fine, you can complain but let it be known that I’m nobodies gay best friend”

 

“Yeah yeah, now is not the time for one of your ‘shit straight people say to homosexuals’ speeches”

 

On the contrary, every time is the time for a ‘shit straight people say to homosexuals’ speech, but he won’t risk Cosette’s temper by saying so. Leaning over the armrest to pass one of the mugs, Enjolras hoists up onto the kitchen counter to nurse his own mug close to his chest.

 

“Let me make a wild guess and say this has to do with a certain Monsieur Pontmercy?”

 

The sound of frustration says it all. Cosette sets her cup down on the floor.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I adore him, I really do. He’s the first man I’ve been with who I can actually see a future with.” A statement Enjolras finds hard to comprehend. Logically he knows, that despite his own general annoyance in regards to Marius, he is a very suitable match for most women. He’s respectful, loving, devoted, resembles something similar to a puppy dog; it would be cute if Enjolras didn’t find it so desperately annoying.

 

“But” Cosette continues, holding up one hand “He sometimes takes his romantic attitude a little too far. For example, we went to a bar one evening with Eponine and Courfeyrac, and he got annoyed because my skirt blew up to show most of my thigh.  He gets irritated when other people check me out, which I can understand but that was totally out of my control and when I told him such he got really upset.”

 

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, but closes it when it seems Cosette is not finished.

 

“But the thing that annoys me is that he doesn’t want to have sex with me, not because he doesn’t _want to_ but because he has some notion of purity and would think he’s doing me wrong by having sex with me. Like please, I’m not a virgin, and I don’t have a problem with it and I just want him to treat me less like some delicate flower.”

 

She huffs, taking a deep breath of steam before swallowing a mouthful of tea, slumping into the sofa cushions. Enjolras sets his cup in the sink having gulped down the scolding water, steeping his fingers.

 

“Have you spoken about this to him?” He says a little lamely, never being one to give good advice on love affair matters, as reflected in his inability to sort out what’s going on in his own.

 

“Not completely, I just don’t want to upset him. He’s unlike anyone I’ve dated before.”

 

“Well I’m sure you won’t break him too much, and if it goes right then you’ll both be happy.”

 

“You’re the worst at this. Turn on your shitty TV.”

 

The TV is a tiny model sat upon the kitchen counter that divides what could be classed as a living room from the kitchen. Admittedly Enjolras doesn’t own much furniture, with his ratty couch again the far wall of the narrow slip of wooden flooring between the bedroom door and the kitchen counter, a couple of fold up garden chairs, a tiny oval table, a wardrobe and a bed as the sum total (excluding the kitchen equipment and the cardboard boxes he keeps books in.)

 

“So what are these rumours I’ve heard about you having a big crush on Grantaire?” He blushes furiously, pushing aside the memory of the morning’s event and ignoring the twist in his stomach. If Cosette knows about it, then it’s likely that everyone knows by now, meaning Enjolras now has a reason to stay in the apartment and die a slow death.

 

“Before you can say you don’t know what I’m talking about, Courfeyrac told me everything and alternatively, Combeferre told Courfeyrac everything. So unless you want to call Combeferre lair then…” Cosette intercepts Enjolras attempt to deny it. He sighs.

 

“It’s just a phase, nothing will come of it.”

 

“Nothing will come of it because it’s a phase? Or because you won’t let anything come of it?”

 

“He doesn’t like me okay, and I have no reason to like him. We argue pretty much all the time and he never turns up to meetings and it just doesn’t work.” It’s a stupid infatuation bought about by something new entering his rather monotonous life. Once everything has settled, once the fundraising plan is fully complete, once the university grants his application of the TA position, the thing with Grantaire will disappear into nothing but friendship.

 

Cosette laughs, patting Enjolras’ knee affectionately.

 

“You two, you’re like children pulling each others pigtails in the sandbox.”

 

When Enjolras asks what she means, Cosette just laughs again and shakes her head, ignoring him in favour for the soap opera on the TV.

 

*

 

It’s a pain to admit, but more often than not these days, their plans tend to go a little askew. Even back in the university days, there would always be those moments when for no particular reason, a protest would escalate beyond control and turn into a riot. It had landed them in trouble with campus security an uncountable amount of times, and sometimes, Enjolras can’t help but think that the reason behind his deadlock in regards to the TA position is simply because of the amount of black marks on his record.

 

And in keeping with this chain of events, the latest protest is no different.

 

The day of the Saturday protest arrives, and the sky is overcast with light grey clouds and a chilly breeze, but this does nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd. Over a hundred people had shown up to give their support, gathered on the steps of the main building with banners and signs, a collection of crates bound together to form a makeshift podium for the ring leaders to stand upon.

 

Feuilly and Bahorel are at the head of it all, standing together with a sign propped against Bahorel’s shoulder as Feuilly talks to the group of people gathered around them, warming up to the main frenzy. Enjolras stood in the middle of the crowd with Courfeyrac, huddled in his jacket whilst basking in the protest. It is environments such as this in which he thrives, in the middle of the crowd filled with energy and excitement, aggression curling under the injustice. Seeing Feuilly take the lead sends something akin to pride and admiration rushing through his veins as he pushes through the crowd to access his friend on the building steps.

 

“Enjolras, it’s a pleasure as always to see your face.” Bahorel calls out, grabbing Enjolras by the arm to heave him through the lines of people.

 

“You know I would not miss this.”  Enjolras smiles as Bahorel pulls him into the crook of his arm. There’s something very comforting about being pressed against the side of a man such as Bahorel, who is admittedly taller and of larger build than Enjolras but also softer in his affections.

 

“We never doubted you my friend, but it would never be a protest without you.”

 

“I don’t know, Feuilly’s speech is impressive.” They had gathered together the evening before in the basement of the Musain, ankles knocking together under the table as Feuilly practises and Enjolras tweaks here and there. Courfeyrac had always said that if it weren’t for the fact Feuilly is straight, Enjolras would be all over his adorable ginger locks and crawling inside his plaid shirts. Enjolras, of course, protested against it, but even he has to admit the admiration.

 

“Now you see, some would be worried when they return from their coffee run to find their boyfriend with another man tucked against his side.” Eponine says as she approaches with a cardboard tray of steaming polystyrene cups. She passes one to Bahorel and the other to Feuilly, pinning Enjolras with a teasing look. “But not only are you guys too tactile for your own good, but I rest safe in the knowledge that the leader of it all is pining after one of my closest friends.”

 

Enjolras glares at her, hoping that Courfeyrac realises that this glare is partly meant for him as well, and that he should move closer so that he may glare at the pair of them simultaneously.

 

“Can we go one day without talking about this?”

 

“ Why would we do that when it’s so fun?” Courfeyrac retorts, nudging Enjolras in the ribs with that stupid grin on his face, and Enjolras has to peel away from Bahorel’s side for throttling purposes.

 

But before any form of manslaughter can happen, the crowd has started cheering and someone is pushing Feuilly up onto the makeshift crate podium. Police have started to gather in small groups at the fringes of the crowd, having been alerted by complaints of disturbances. Enjolras is beaming, joining in with the clapping and cheering as Bahorel hoists Eponine onto his shoulders so that she can see better.

 

“First of all I’d like to say thank you to everyone for turning up today. Without you, my friends, my co-workers, even people who may not be directly involved in what is happening but still wish to show their support, today would be nothing.” Feuilly starts, gesturing out to the crowd that hums in response. Some have already gotten their phones out to record the event, including Eponine.

 

Feuilly continues his speech, rattling off some statistics and explaining what is actually happening to their wages. His deliverance is calm and collected, unlike the passionate almost incontrollable embodiment that Enjolras takes on when headlining a speech for a protest. But the crowd is enraptured nonetheless and this only serves to make the admiration for Feuilly soar even higher.

 

“Such a man crush” Courfeyrac whispers, only to be violently shushed.

 

“We are people of simple labour, of carpentry and plumbing and restoration. We may not be people of corporation but we are still people of dedication. We have a fundamental right to provide for ourselves and for our families, we will not stand for the percentage cuts to our wages as we have worked to fill our own pockets and not the money snatching hands of the corporate bosses who have no idea what it is like to live on pocket change.”

 

The uproar of the crowd is deafening and there’s a surge of ecstatic energy following the noise. Feuilly opens his mouth to shout something but is distracted by a skirmish breaking out on the fringes of the crowd. There’s an outcry and suddenly the crowd to scattering, the clatter of plastic riot shields echoing above the commotion. The police have started swarming through the crowd, pushing through the resistance to get to the ringleaders gathered at the front.

 

Bahorel pushes through the last few lines of people, grabbing Feuilly and dragging him off the podium, half carrying him as he makes a grab for Eponine who had slipped from his shoulders. The last they see of them is Bahorel’s lumbering frame being engulfed by the crowd. Enjolras makes to go after them but Courfeyrac has grabbed him, hauling him off in the opposite direction.

 

Enjolras takes the lead, pushing through the throng with a surprising amount of strength. Courfeyrac is shouting something, his voice being consumed as the distance between them grows. Being lost in the chaos isn’t a new experience having been involved in violent protests more times than he would like, he knows to run, to scatter the group and to get to whoever lives nearest. Then it’s a matter of making sure everyone else is okay, or time to scrap the bottom of the metaphorical barrel for bail money.

 

Fights are breaking out all over the place, police arresting violent protestors, and even some people attacking their neighbours when taken over by the adrenaline rush. An unseen force from behind send Enjolras tripping over a mesh of limbs, hand automatically latching onto the sweater of whoever is in front of him and ripping the fabric. His head smacks against the curb, palms slamming against the paving stones. Black stars burst in his vision upon the impact, the pain flaring in his skull and limbs making him dizzy.

 

There are hands grasping the back of his jacket, sliding beneath his arms to pull him to his feet. To his surprise, Jehan is the one supporting his weight against his thin shoulders, Courfeyrac fretting from his other side.

 

“Jehan” Enjolras mumbles, feeling a slick sensation sliding down the side of his face. He may be bleeding, but he’s not sure.

 

“Oh god Enjolras” Jehan looks concerned gently pressing fingers to the place where Enjolras’ face his throbbing, making the blond flinch backwards. “Here take this”

 

Jehan passes him over onto Courfeyrac for support, taking off the thin summer scarf he’s wearing and pressing the soft, balled up fabric against the side of Enjolras’ face and bringing his hand up to hold it in place.

 

Enjolras isn’t quite sure how they end up climbing the hill towards a familiar florists, he thinks it might have something to do with Courfeyrac mentioning that Joly’s apartment is too far away, followed by Jehan saying he has a first aid kit. He hadn’t really been paying attention, preoccupied with trying to smother the pain in his head as he leans against Courfeyrac’s side. Music can be heard form the street outside, flowing out through the open balcony doors on the second floor, a melody Enjolras doesn’t recognize but find fascinating all the same.

 

They stumble up the stairs, Enjolras pushing away from Courfeyrac to slip down to the floor, his back leaning against the couch, legs stretched out in front of him. There’s movement behind him, cloudy, distant. The sound of talking, of footsteps on stairs, cabinet doors banging. The piano has stopped, and Enjolras misses its soothing presence. Jehan appears in his line of sight, kneeling down in front of him when he sluggishly moves his legs out of the way.

 

“I’m no doctor, so you should probably get Joly or Combeferre to look at your head afterwards.” Jehan says, gently cleaning the wound with a wet flannel to clear the drying blood off the surrounding skin. Blood has stopped seeping from the wound, reducing it to a throbbing ache in his temple, with the stinging of his grazed cheek to match.

 

“No not Joly, he’ll flip out. Not to say Combeferre won’t be angry but at least he won’t be convinced you’re on the edge of death. It’ll be best to consider Joly’s sanity.” Courfeyrac adds from somewhere in the kitchen, smoothing a plaster over his grazed arm.

 

“Where are the others?” Enjolras asks, flinching as the dressing is applied.

 

“Don’t worry.” Jehan reassures “They’ve all paired off and are getting patched up. Most of them are at Bahorel’s.”

 

Enjolras ends up with violet coloured plasters with flowers on covering the wounds on his temple and jaw with the grazed cheek left uncovered. Courfeyrac has rooted around the box to find a plaster with ‘ouch!’ written in bold red writing to cover the cut on his hand.

 

“Why do you have all this stuff?” Courfeyrac asks as Jehan smoothes strands of Enjolras’ hair out the way of his face, rising to his feet to flop down into the adjacent armchair.

 

“When Grantaire first moved in, he was prone to accidents.”

 

“When Grantaire first moved in, he wasn’t used to not being able to see things.” Grantaire shouts from inside his bedroom and Enjolras can’t remember if he’s been talking to them the entire time. It would explain why the piano had stopped playing.

 

Turning his head in the direction of the bedroom, he sees Grantaire emerge in the doorway, leaning against the frame with arms crossed. There’s a tightening in his chest; it been almost two weeks since they’ve seen each other and the mere sight of him makes Enjolras want to just reach out and touch. Whether or not it’s the knock to the head making him a little disorientated, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to look away, head titling back to rest on the couch cushions with eyes trailing after Grantaire.

 

“Hi” Enjolras says, snatching the attention away from Courfeyrac who has opened his mouth to say something. Grantaire looks down in the direction of the voice.

 

“Are you sat on the floor?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Grantaire takes a small step forward, toes nudging against Enjolras’ hip before sinking to the floor. He sits cross-legged, knee overlaying Enjolras’ thigh. Jehan retreats round into the kitchen with Courfeyrac, taking his hand and tugging him up the creaking staircase leading into the attic.

 

“Hi” Enjolras repeats a little dopily, suddenly feeling drowsy despite the pounding in his chest. Grantaire smiles.

 

“Where did you get injured?”

 

Enjolras screws up his face, keeping his palms pressed into the floor so that they don’t end up wandering onto Grantaire’s thighs.

 

“I hit my head on the pavement, but it really isn’t that bad.” 

 

Grantaire’s eyebrows arch, fingers twitching as he lifts one of his hands to lie upon Enjolras’ shoulder, fingertips brushing against his neck. He suppresses a shiver at the touch of warm skin.

 

“May I?” Grantaire mutters, fingers crawling up his neck. Enjolras’ throat closes, nodding through the sudden inability to speak before remembering that Grantaire can’t see the action.

 

“Yes” He whispers a little hoarsely.

 

Gingerly, Grantaire presses his fingers against the plaster on the side of Enjolras’ head, the pressure light but Enjolras still winces.

 

“Sorry” Grantaire says, pulling his fingers back, but Enjolras raises his hand and pushes the fingers back into place curving around his cheek.

 

Something in Enjolras’ mind short circuits, sensory system zoning into only the feel of skin on skin, the gentle movement of fingertips tracing over bone structure and there is little left to do but lean into the contact. Fingers pass gently over closed eyelids, sweeping down the side of his face to press against the corner of his mouth, beneath the fullness of his bottom lips before moving to cup his chin.

 

Eyes fluttering open, Enjolras scans Grantaire’s face, notes the light pink flush painting his cheekbones. Grantaire’s head is bowed, eyes closed to cover the ice beneath. Fixating on his mouth, Enjolras just wants to lean forward a kiss him, run his tongue along the seam and suck on his lip.  It would be so easy just to lean forward and-

 

And Grantaire’s hand snaps back, his back straightening rigidly, followed almost immediately of the sound of footsteps on stairs as Jehan and Courfeyrac come back from upstairs. Enjolras feels the heat rush towards his face; the colour of his already flushed cheeks deepening to an alarming shade that mirrors Grantaire’s. They both look impossibly guilty despite not having done anything and Enjolras can’t bare to look up from his hands to see the inevitable smug look that will be on Courfeyrac’s face.

 

“I gave Combeferre a call and he says you’ll need rest, so I’m in charge with getting you home. Unless you want to stay here?” Courfeyrac says, looking between them with a positively gleeful Jehan peering over his shoulder.

 

“No it’s fine, take me home.”

 

Enjolras ignores Courfeyrac for the entire metro journey, but the silence no doubt says it all.

 

*

 

By the time a few days have passed, Enjolras’ limbs ache and bruises that were previously hidden have blossomed in purples and reds all over his body. The cuts ad grazes are itchy and tender to the touch, blood now clotted together to form thick scabs that require the uttermost self control not to pick off.

 

“You’re lucky you still don’t have to go back to work for a while yet. Your TA application would definitely be in the trash if you turned up looking like a thug.” Combeferre says, turning Enjolras’ head this way and that to inspect the healing wounds. He had not been impressed when Courfeyrac had dumped their drowsy leader at his apartment door on the day of the protest, and had made the disapproval very vocal the next day when Enjolras lay on his couch with a splitting headache.

 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence” Enjolras rolls his eyes, pulling away from Combeferre’s hands to lie back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

 

He’s been living in Combeferre’s apartment, for no particular reason other than not wanting to leave, for about three days. It’s not a particularly strange occurrence, before when they were both still at university the sight of a mound of blankets on the couch with blond curls spilling up from underneath was a common sight. Joly didn’t mind either, even if just looking at Enjolras’ face right now meant he was half way to a heart attack, constantly shining lights into his eyes to make sure the knock hadn’t been too serious.

 

Combeferre perches on the edge of the bed, gently patting Enjolras’ knee.

 

“Enjolras” He starts gingerly, as if still thinking over how best to word what he’s about to say. “Are you sure being a teaching assistant at the university is right for you? Don’t get me wrong, you are a wonderful teacher, I just never really considered you’d take that path.”

 

It hadn’t necessarily been a choice of a suitable path, but rather, a vaguely achievable one.  Originally he had applied for placements in multiple government institutes in the hope that he could change them, but due to his record the applications had been declined. His other applications for internships at charity organizations had been met with, ‘although his achievements were suiting to their causes, all internship spaces had be filled and hopefully he would consider applying for a placement the following year’. Stuck with his employment options, and having very little money after he graduated, naturally he had leapt at the position within the university Lamarque had offered him with the promise that one day he too could end up inspiring the young political minds of tomorrow.

 

Plans hadn’t been working out as Enjolras had wanted them, and the disappointment was starting to breed doubt in his normally incorruptible mind. Sighing he places his hands over his eyes, suddenly feeling tired lying limp on top of the blankets.

 

“I’m doing what I can Combeferre.”

 

*

 

“Look at you five idiots, I’m surprised none of you ended up in hospital.” Musichetta half-heartedly scolds, holding onto a squirming Joly who is itching to grab the first aid kit from his bag and give them a proper check up. It’s the Wednesday meeting, and the five of them present at Saturday’s protest have lined up to show off their newly gained souvenirs.

 

Courfeyrac is the least damaged, with only some grazes on his wrist and arm, a small scattering of bruises in random places mostly from where Enjolras has gripped onto him too tightly. Eponine is next, with bruised knuckles and grazed knees, thick scabs underlining the kneecap. Feuilly has gone surprisingly unscaved with only a couple of bruises from where Bahorel had been hauling him along, protecting his best friend like a loyal hound. Bahorel, who can never resist the temptation of a fight, is covered in scabs and purpling marks all over his dark skin, limbs aching from carrying Feuilly for half the time and attempting to carry Eponine as well (who had swatted his hands away saying she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself). 

 

“I don’t know, maybe you should go to the hospital. Especially you Enjolras, blunt trauma to the head can be severely damaging to the brain. An uncountable number of things could be going on internally.” Joly says with increasing discomfort, wringing his hands. Musichetta throws her arm over his shoulder, squeezing his bicep reassuringly.

 

“I’m sure they will all be fine, Enjolras has been living with you for the last few days and he’s been right as rain.” Bossuet says, rubbing soothing circles into Joly’s thigh.

 

“I know, but if your vision starts going blurry or you black out at any moment then you give me a call straight away Enjolras”

 

“You have my word doctor.” Enjolras swears patting Joly’s shoulder and drawing a cross over his heart. Joly’s smile is uncertain but appreciative all the same.

 

“So are we following the usual after protest procedure?” Musichetta asks. Enjolras looks towards Feuilly to take the lead.

 

“Sure, enjoy the two week break everyone.”

 

*

 

At the end of the week Enjolras returns home, flicking through the handful of mail as he dumps his keys on the kitchen counter. Most of it is junk, a single postcard from his parents with ‘best wishes from Malibu’ on the front, which ends up in the bin without being read. At the bottom of the pile there’s a very official looking envelope, with the university crest stamped in the corner.

 

Setting the other letters down with a rush of excitement, Enjolras tears open the envelope with very little care. But the smile on his face falls instantly when he sees the sentence ‘provisional selection for redundancy’. The words blur together, incomprehensible and meshed, the paper falling from his hand and onto the coffee table. He calls Combeferre, who opens the door to the apartment to find his friend lying on the sofa with fingers steepled beneath his chin, gesturing towards the letter on the table.

 

“ Due to unforeseen cuts in university funding, we regret to inform you that this has resulted in your provisional selection for redundancy.” Combeferre reads aloud, tone steady, hand petting Enjolras’ hair as a source of comfort. “The university will now enter a period of consultation with you to ensure that we have fairly applied the selection for redundancy process, and to look at any alternatives. In the meantime, I am sure that you will want to take time to consider any points you wish to raise.”

 

He reads out the date of the redundancy meeting, running fingers through Enjolras’ hair.

 

“Oh Enjolras, I’m so sorry.”

 

“I hated that job anyway.” Enjolras huffs

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

The phone buzzes on the coffee table.

 

“It’s Lamarque, he says he’s sorry about the notice and would like to see you soon.” Combeferre says before placing the phone on Enjolras’ chest where it goes untouched. He sighs, rolling on his side to reach for the television remote to favour children’s cartoons over the matter of employment.

 

Combeferre stays, letting Enjolras cuddle up to him without the need for conversation. A source of comfort that stays for the rest of the day.

 

*

 

“My boy, what trouble did you land yourself in this time?” Lamarque says when Enjolras slips into the chair opposite. The older man is gesturing towards his slowly healing face, looking concerned.

 

“A friends protest went wrong.” Enjolras says dismissively, self consciously touching the scab on the side of his face. The bruises on the rest of his body have started to fade to a sickly yellow and he’s no longer aching with every movement.

 

“I should have guessed, you always were in the habit of turning up to lectures with bruised knuckles.” It’s said with fondness, but Enjolras has not slept and is in no mood for smiling at nostalgia.

 

“You do not look well, but I guess you are not having the best of luck at the moment.”

 

“Being fired from a job I didn’t really like in the first place doesn’t make me feel overjoyed “ Enjolras mumbles, nursing a cup of coffee in his fingers. He’s sulking and doesn’t even want to think because every time he does he either thinks about how much of a failure he’s been, or thinks about Grantaire; neither of which he wants to dwell on at this moment in time.

 

“Enjolras, I am sincerely sorry for what’s happening. I tried my hardest to reason with the board but I’m afraid there was nothing I could do. At least you still have a month left in employment and I will try my hardest to help you in trying to find a new job.”

 

“As much as I appreciate it, I’m going to discuss taking my pay and leaving with the board when I have my redundancy meeting.” Enjolras scowls at the tabletop. He wasn’t in the mood for this, he wanted to go home and watch re-runs of bad daytime telly shows for the rest of the day.

 

“Come now, don’t get disheartened. Think of all the other opportunities this can present.”

 

Enjolras hums, frowning at his coffee cup before distracting himself with talk of political activism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is otherwise known as 'in which Enjolras' luck goes from bad to worse' 
> 
> Wow okay I have some explaining to do. I'm so sorry this is late, it all started because I had to go on a field work trip with school which then just messed up my routine totally, resulting in this terribly late update. Also sorry about the lack of E/R interaction in this part, but there is plenty to make up for it in the next update.


	6. Narrowly Ducking Beneath The Rom-Com Bar.

 

“Enjolras”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Enjolras, pay attention.”

 

“What?”

 

“You need to stop.”

 

The bed is a mess of open newspapers and tangled sheets with Enjolras at the epicentre. The laptop is open, fan whirring away in an overheating frenzy that ultimately goes ignored, charger cable lost within the bedding and emerging straining from the wall socket. Mugs of coffee litter the nightstand, some old and forgotten with foam starting to congeal around the rim. Combeferre stands in the doorway, taking note of Enjolras’ wild hair and the dark circles smudged beneath his eyes.

 

Enjolras huffs, partially closing the laptop lid to look at Combeferre.

 

“When was the last time you slept?”

 

“Combeferre look, I-”

 

“Enjolras.” It’s the tone of voice that makes Enjolras slam the laptop lid all the way closed.

 

“I don’t know okay, I’ve been busy trying to find a new job and trying to sort out the fundraiser and just trying to do _something”_ Doing something would make him feel less like a complete failure, even if the hours spent awake are making him feel like less of a human being. It’s only been a few days since his last pay cheque was posted into his bank account and he’s already at a loss of what to do with himself.

 

A gentle hand lies upon his shoulder, the other slowly pulling the laptop from Enjolras’ lap as the mattress dips under Combeferre’s weight. The look of sympathetic understanding speaks in volume, as all their silence conversations do, and Enjolras feels exhausted under the weight of it all.

 

“You need to rest. Forget the fundraiser for a moment, you cannot do anything when you yourself are in a crisis, we will not let you run yourself into the ground like this.”

 

“But I need the money Combeferre, as much as I hate to say it. That’s how capitalism works, I have to pay my rent, buy food, pay my bills. My existence here revolves around the money in my pocket and if there is not enough money in my pockets then I will be cast aside so that someone else can line the pockets of others instead.”

 

It’s disgusting to even think of, it makes bile sting at his throat because never before has everything seemed so real, like everything he’s been fighting against has just turned right around and stabbed him in the chest. Combeferre is shushing him softly, sensing the rising distress that bleeds out due to sleep-deprived control.

 

“Calm down, you’re over thinking this. We’ll find you work, but you need to take a few days off. Courfeyrac was thinking-”

 

Enjolras groans, falling to lie down on the bed with hands covering his face.

 

“Oh God what has Courfeyrac been thinking?”

 

“It’s not as bad as you think.” Combeferre chuckles “We were just thinking of getting everybody together and having a movie night on Friday like we used to do in university. We figured you could use the company.”

 

Enjolras rolls over, burying his head in the pillow and pushing a wad of newspapers to the floor.

 

“As long as it’s not The Notebook again.”

 

*

 

Two days later, Enjolras finally caves and admits he really needs to leave the apartment. It comes after yet another rather unpleasant phone conversation with his mother, who has insisted he come to their country home for some summer party they are holding for their friends in two week’s time. It is something on an annual thing he had been banished from during the three years of being disowned, and before then he had avoided it like the plague. But on the times he had been to the pompous party it had resembled something out of The Great Gatsby; all glitz and a pompous parade of wealth but when it all boiled down to it there is no substance, nothing but the illusion.

 

But suddenly, after years of shunning they’re demanding his presence at his childhood home, to talk to adults who are no different from his parents and there’s no getting out of it. Pulling sharply at his hair, Enjolras picks his phone up from where he’d thrown it at the sofa and scrolls through the contact. Most of his friends are at work, and Cosette is visiting her father with Marius in tow and he considers that Combeferre deserves a break from his constant company. It leaves very few alternate options.

 

His finger hovers over one of the contact numbers, deliberating the idea of pushing the call button. He could always stay indoors instead, or walk through Paris by himself. But at the same time, he hasn’t seen Grantaire since the aftermath of the protest and the last time they had been in the same room together there had been no harsh words or raised voices, just the simplicity and momentary sparks flitting through the air between them.

 

The dial tone connects almost instantly, and Enjolras sits on the edge of the couch cushion, trying not to bite his nails during the wait. The dial tones cuts.

 

“Hello?” Grantaire doesn’t sound like Grantaire when on the phone.

 

“Hi it’s Enjolras.” There’s a rustle.

 

“Enjolras, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

It takes a while for him to get the words out properly, trying to ignore the unusual feeling of his heart pounding in his chest.

 

“I was just wondering, if you’re not busy that is, if you’d like to…hang out with me?” Hang out; he has never hated the combination of two words in his life. It makes him sound like an awkward teenager and he hasn’t felt like an awkward teenager since he was thirteen.   
  
“Uh, yeah sure. I have a rehearsal session in the evening but I’m not doing anything for the rest of the day.” 

 

“Great…so I’ll see you in a minute then?”

 

“Yeah, see you Enjolras.”

 

The line cuts with a click, and Enjolras doesn’t even both taking a moment to compose himself before he’s dressing, grabbing all his essential items from the counter and rushing down to the nearest Metro station.  It’s just approaching midday so there’s plenty of the day left to spar, and the sun is shining in a typical August shine.

 

The café next to the florist is filled with locals stopping for lunch when Enjolras walks up the hill and Jehan is outside his florist shop watering plants presented in traditional wooden crates outside the shop entrance. His hair is starting to grow out again, curling just under his ears and he’s wearing a shirt Enjolras has seen on Courfeyrac multiple times with legging under a green apron. He grins and waves as Enjolras approaches.

 

“Enjolras come inside, there’s still some pomegranate tea in the pot.”

 

Inside the heat has made the sweet, heady smelling flower shop hot like a greenhouse. The windows are open, allowing a soft cooling breeze to brush against skin and stir the petals of flowers. There’s a chalk board with a drawing done by Feuilly in the corner and the walls are a pastel blue and a chequered cloth on the service counter, an antique radio crackling next to the till.

 

Jehan leads him through to the back room that also doubles as a store room with shelves of seeds and pots and plants lining the wall shelves, with a battered old bench piled with pillows and a table hidden the middle of it all. Grantaire is sat with fingers sliding over brialle, taking sips from a teacup held in one hand. He’s wearing shorts with a low neck white t-shirt.

 

“Enjolras is here.” Jehan says, going over to the kitchenette to pour tea.

 

“Now this is a surprise, allow me to make space for you” Grantaire responses, closing the book and placing it aside, shifting so his feet are on the floor with a gap left for Enjolras next to him. For a moment Enjolras thanks whatever judge of fate that Courfeyrac hasn’t miraculously appeared from behind one of the shelves, meaning that he may be able to avoid the inevitable for a little while longer. He also takes a brief moment to be thankful for Grantaire’s seemingly good mood, meaning their chances of getting into an argument are reduced but increased in fragility.

 

“I would love to stay and chat, but I have some very thirty plants to attend to and a bride wanting to discuss flowers in about an hour.” Jehan says apologetically, passing the cup and wiping sweat from his forehead. Enjolras thanks him, watching as he scurries off to the front of the shop.

 

“So” Grantaire starts, taping his fingertips against the cup rim “What did you have planned?”

 

“Honestly, this is all a bit spur of the moment.” If Grantaire knew about his current circumstances he didn’t let on, something Enjolras feels grateful for.

 

“Come on you’re in Paris, is there anything in Paris you’ve ever wanted to do? I don’t care if it’s ridiculously touristy.” Grantaire is grinning; the length of his hair falling over the back of the headrest went he tilts backwards looking towards the ceiling.

 

In honesty, Enjolras had never been one for tourist attraction. He had done his fair share of the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame as a child, has lounged near the July Column with Combeferre and Courfeyrac on Bastille Day. There were still so many things he had never done, had never found the desire or time for. Not even just wandering out the streets with no idea where to go had ever struck a cord had never occurred as a fantasy as it had so many of his friends. 

 

“I have always wanted to go to the Louvre” He muses aloud before catching himself, chewing his lip before awkwardly adding “But that would be unfair all things considered.”

 

“You mean because I’m blind.” Grantaire states bluntly, expression falling flat with exasperation. Enjolras shifts.

 

“What about you? What in Paris have you always wanted to do?”

 

Grantaire hums, the question distracting from his falling mood.

 

“Well, when I first came to Paris six years ago I did do an awful amount of stuff. But there is one thing I’ve never done which takes my fancy.”

 

“Which is?”

 

Grantaire’s grin is wicked this time, pulling the elastic band from his wrist to tie up his hair. He rises from the makeshift sofa, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from the table and the cane from where it’s resting within arms reach.

 

“That’s a surprise. Do me a favour and grab my wallet from the kitchen counter in the flat, the keys are on the second hook from the left behind the till.” Grantaire navigates his way out through the shop entrance with Enjolras following at his heels, calmly letting himself in through the marred green door and up the stairs.

 

The apartment never seems to change, even though there are clothes drying on the banister leading to Jehan’s attic room and dried flowers being pressed beneath heavy books on the kitchen counter. Grantaire’s wallet is battered black leather with the words ‘ _No Money’_ written in chipped tipp-ex on one side, dated for 2007. Grabbing it, he pauses on his way towards the front door, glancing at the door of Grantaire’s bedroom which is open wide enough to see the open doors to the balcony and shelf stacked high with CDs. It’s tempting, just to take a peek, but it’s a total invasion of privacy and Enjolras decides that his helpless infatuation hasn’t stooped so low and takes off through the front door.

 

Grantaire leans next to the doorframe, face drenched in sunlight.

 

“Hope you don’t mind taking the bus” He says, curling his fingers hesitantly around Enjolras’ arm. It’s like it had been that evening almost a month ago, the warmth of walking side by side with a starry night and easy conversation. Back before Enjolras realised just how delicate their relationship could be.

 

For the entire bus journey Grantaire keeps annoyingly tight lipped, only occasionally asking for a description of the surroundings in order to gage direction, but apart from that whenever Enjolras asks where they’re going Grantaire just smirks with the words ‘that would ruin the surprise’ falling from his lips. Grantaire hummed, tapping a beat out with his foot whilst Enjolras ignores the looks he’s getting from the man sat in the opposite chair. It’s an irritation in his periphery, but allow their eyes to wander in vain when he only has eyes for the man at his side.

 

When asked for the seventh time to describe the view outside as the city fades away into suburbs, Enjolras is meet with an outburst of ‘get off at the next stop’ whilst Grantaire patting his leg a little over excitedly.

 

And that’s how they end up at the Lac Inferieur in Bois de Boulogne on the western edge of Paris.

 

“This is what you’ve always wanted to do?” Enjolras asks, standing in the long queue for the boat hire, Grantaire turning his head this way and that in avid excitement.

 

“Sure” Grantaire turns back to him, grinning in a way that lights up his entire face “Why not? This park is very beautiful, so why not row ones boat in large, artificially made ponds on such a sunny day? It’s rather romantic when you think about it.”

 

Enjolras’ brain may short circuit and his cheeks may turn a subtle pink at the word ‘romantic’. This isn’t meant to be romantic; it’s meant to be a simple outing between two people who may be borderline friends, not a date.

 

“I didn’t consider you the romantic type.” If there’s a strain to his voice it goes unacknowledged.

 

“Living with Jehan for five years can sway you. I am well versed in the ways of love.” Grantaire winks with that terrible smirk on his face, fishing out his wallet. Enjolras notices that the notes are folded in certain ways depending on the amount.

 

“Here, let’s go halves” Enjolras pulls out his own wallet, feeling a little disappointed by the lack of substance inside. Grantaire bats at his hand.

 

“Nonsense, this is my chosen activity and thus I will pay for it. You can be in charge of buying lunch. Deal?”

 

Enjolras deflates, reluctantly putting the wallet away because there is no point protesting when he’s sure he doesn’t have enough money to go halves as it is.

 

“Deal”

 

“Great. Oh and I should mention that you’re the one who’s in charge of rowing.”

 

Once of the boat hire people help to drag the two-man rowboat to the bank, leaving Grantaire to hop inside as Enjolras pushes it off the land and into the shallows before scrambling in himself. It takes a moment for Enjolras to get sorted, taking the ores in hand and perfecting the method. Grantaire lounges, both arms dangling over the side of the boat so his knuckles drag on the cool surface of the water, legs stretched out so their ankles bump together. The pond is filled with other boat rowers; mostly couples on a romantic weekend away, but there are a few parents trying to keep their young children from going over board, bundled in life jackets.

 

The steady motion of rowing eventually makes Enjolras start to relax, slowly unwinding until they’re in the middle of the large pond, floating on still water. Enjolras lets the ores drag in the water until the boat halts, mirroring Grantaire’s position even if he keeps his hands in the boat. Grantaire sighs with content, shaking his hair out of its ponytail and slotting the sunglasses in the neck of his t-shirt, basking in the sunlight like a sunflower.

 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Enjolras ask softly, carefully treading around the subject. Grantaire quirks an eyebrow.

 

“Ask and see if I answer.”

 

“What is it like? Living the way you do?” The corner of Grantaire’s mouth twitches upward.

 

“You are a curious one aren’t you Enjolras. But that is something I cannot fault, so I’ll give you an example.” Grantaire shifts his leg, accidentally dragging his foot further up Enjolras’ heel.

 

“Earlier I said this park is very beautiful. I know it not because of what Jehan has told me, or what memory supplies, but because I can hear the laughter of couples in other boats, the slosh of ores in water. I can smell flowers and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. People have this misconception that when you go blind your other senses heighten, they don’t, you just learn to use them better in order to make up for what you’ve lost. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s difficult because people can be dicks and I rely on Jehan for things that I’m too afraid to do myself, and I miss being able to see things. But instead of knowing when you’re pissed with me by seeing you scowl and tense, I know by the pitch and tightness of your voice, that little growl in the back of your throat like you really want to hit me but can’t” Grantaire starts laughing which is a good sign.

 

“I don’t growl” Enjolras protests.

 

“Yes you do” Grantaire teases.

 

“So…you haven’t always been blind?”

 

“No. I did something stupid when I first came to Paris, maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.” Grantaire flicks his fingers, splashing Enjolras with droplets of water. Enjolras flinches but smiles, returning the favour.

 

He’s well aware that he’s engaging in possibly the biggest romantic cliché of all time, that really, all that needs to happen now is a passionate kiss in the rain for his life to meet full rom-com proportions. But it’s strangely nice and it’s the best he’s felt in a long time. Besides, seeing as there isn’t anything romantic going on between them he’s narrowly ducking beneath the rom-com bar.

 

“Apparently I’m having a movie night at my apartment on Friday.” Enjolras says when they start rowing back towards the shore after almost an hour spent basking in the sun.

 

“Apparently?”

 

“It’s Courfeyrac’s idea but my apartment is the venue. You can come if you like”

 

“Yeah that would be nice”

 

Pulling the boat back onto the back, Enjolras leans over the side to take Grantaire’s hand, helping him over the side and safely onto shore with only a little water soaking into his shoes. He places a hand on Grantaire’s hip to steady him when he hops over the side, blushing furiously when they end up pressed together with only a couple of inches between their faces. It would be so easy, to lean form and press the tiniest of kisses to the other’s lips, just as it would have been easy to kiss him that day of the protest. The thought is so prominent in the forefront of his mind that suddenly he can’t think of anything else but kissing Grantaire, right there next to the rowboat slap bang in the middle of possibly one of the most romantic places in Paris.

 

Instead, he clears his throat, stepping back and dropping his hands even if their arms remain linked. Grantaire rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, a pretty blush tingeing his cheekbones. But as every, Grantaire somehow manages to wrangle them into a conversation about the most recent events in government and they end up bickering whilst strolling arm and arm through the park. For once it’s light hearted, and even though Grantaire is infuriating in everyway possible, Enjolras can’t get mad at him, not when he’s come alive through talking. The cane moves from side to side on the path ahead, the white ball rattling on the gravel and people part like the red sea at the sight of it. None of them fail to look at them, something which would normally making Enjolras rile and grow tense across the shoulders, but it doesn’t matter at that moment in time, all that matters is the little bubble surrounding them to shield them from everything and anything that may be happening beyond it.

 

They end up sat opposite one another on a bench table with fresh sandwiches and bottles of lemonade from a vendor with people lounging on the grass. The conversation has turned to talk of trivia, their interests and recounting stories from the past to make the other laugh. Like always, their feet knock together beneath the table, toes touching.

 

“So there’s this really nice couple who come into the bar all the time.” Grantaire is talking about his new job and how he likes it much more to the restaurant job (even if he still works there, playing piano doesn’t pay much) “And apparently they always get people dancing like swing dances, but they tip really well and they always come and talk to us our shift.”

 

Enjolras hums, a hum that cuts off with surprise when he feels Grantaire’s toe rubbing against his ankle. He glances up but Grantaire’s face give away nothing as he continues talking, eating as if he’s unaware of what his foot is doing. There is a likeliness that it’s an accident, a likeness which is low but still there all the same. Or at least it was until his foot slides further up his heel to move in tiny circles over the back of his calf.

 

His food is completely forgotten and Enjolras can barely formulate a reply, words jumbled in favour for zoning in on the pressure against the back of his leg, the way it makes a shudder rattle of his spine and his cock stir on his jeans. It really shouldn’t be that easy to gain his interest, but after almost three weeks Grantaire has been spotlighting in every fantasy Enjolras has had and physical contact really isn’t helping the matter.

 

Grantaire is trying to hide his smirk behind his can of lemonade. He has to know the effect this is having and there is no way this can be anything but intentional. But before Enjolras can get his now very dry throat to work properly, Grantaire’s foot is being removed as he stands, balling up the sandwich wrapper. Enjolras whines involuntary, missing the contact as soon as it vanishes.

 

“C’mon, we should probably think about getting the bus back.” Grantaire says breezily, offering his hand out and Enjolras doesn’t know whether he wants to hit him or ravish him.

 

*

 

“And you did nothing!” Courfeyrac exclaims, voice elevated to a pitch that is boarding on cringe worthy when Enjolras recounts the day spent with Grantaire.

 

“I…the moment passed.” Enjolras said, digging around his cupboards for a large bowl to put popcorn in. It’s movie night and in a matter of moments everyone will be cramped into his too small living room around his Stone Age television. Combeferre had bought a couple of spare chairs with him and Courfeyrac had managed to lug two huge beanbags up the stairs and squeeze them through the doorframe, so people wouldn’t have to sit on the floor.

 

“He pretty much had his foot on your crotch and then the moment passed? The moment never passes after something like that, not unless it passes intentionally.”

 

“His foot was not on my crotch”

 

Courfeyrac mumbles something about missing the point whilst mixing a rum punch in a plastic pitcher he had bought with him.

 

“I think it’s good you had a nice time and took your mind of things for once.” Combeferre says from his place reading the newspaper in a fold out garden chair, from which he had been forbidden to move from to stop him fussing around the kitchen. “Even if you are being purposely oblivious, it’s still nice.”

 

Enjolras glares, setting snacks and glasses on the counter. Luckily the conversation drops by the time everyone starts arriving, Bahorel with Eponine, Musichetta with Joly and Bossuet on each arm, Cosette hand in hand with Marius, Feuilly with sawdust in his hair and a bottle of wine under one arm. They haven’t been together as a group of a while, with personal and professional commitments preventing them from attending meetings. But they’re friends and they’ve all pulled together to support their leader in times of turmoil. Enjolras sits back on the sofa, a cup of rum punch in one hand and a smile.

 

Jehan turns up shortly after, when Courfeyrac and Bahorel are messing around in the kitchen. Grantaire is clinging to him, lingering in the doorway as Jehan tells him the rough layout of the room. Combeferre goes over, greeting the pair of them with a cup for Jehan and offering out an arm for Grantaire to guide him to the nearest free chair. Grantaire is smiling, hands sliding around the flat surfaces, feeling textures and fabrics whilst talking quietly to Combeferre.

 

“Would you like a drink?”

 

“No thank you. We bought some obscure indie films with us.”

 

“Ah hipster movies, and here I was thinking less of you.” Joly says, taking the bag Grantaire passes him with the enthusiasm of a small child in a sweet shop. Bossuet ruffles his hair affectionately.

 

“You can burrow them if it will make me rise in your opinion.”

 

“Never fear Grantaire, there is nothing you can do to make us think less of you.” Feuilly coos, partially draping himself over Grantaire’s outstretched legs.

 

Enjolras smile as he watches from a distance. It’s too late now, a month since meeting them and Jehan, Eponine and Grantaire have merged so seamlessly into the group that there would be no removing them. A time when they were there seems almost unthinkable now, everyone had taken to them so well so maybe it would be okay to just push them a little further. Rising from the sofa, Enjolras sinks down into the garden chair next to Grantaire where Combeferre was once sat.

 

“Hi” Grantaire’s smile turns into something softer at the sound of a voice he recognizes instantly.

 

“Hi. I would say you have a lovely apartment but I haven’t really had the chance to explore it.”

 

“There isn’t much to explore, unless you like empty kitchen cabinets and no furniture when everyone takes their garden chairs home.” It’s nothing like the cosy, warm nest that is Grantaire’s apartment, it’s bare and sparse and more like the inside of an uninhabited seashell.

 

Grantaire inclines his head, his hand tapping the arm of Enjolras’ chair.

 

“Thank you for inviting us.”

 

“I don’t know how fun it’ll be but it’s always amusing to witness the other’s getting completely wasted with film themed drinking games.”

 

Grantaire laughs, relaxing into the chair. Enjolras tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

 

“Courfeyrac and Combeferre are staying the night. You and Jehan are welcome to stay if you don’t have anywhere you need to be”

 

“Yeah that would be good, thank you.”

 

Enjolras smiles, and when Grantaire’s fingers nudge against his own, he doesn’t hesitate in taking them. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lateness 
> 
> sorry for the massive romantic cliche which is this chapter 
> 
> just sorry for this chapter in general 
> 
> (ALSO on another note, in case I forget to say, I will be attending MCM expo in London at the end of october and I'll be there on the saturday and sunday cosplaying the corpse of courfeyrac and cecil from wtnv with friends from tumblr. so if you want to say hi then either drop me a note over on tumblr or just come say hi, I'll be the dude covered in blood )


	7. You Are Truly Remarkable

The following morning is met with the smell of coffee and the front door slamming. Enjolras, whose sleep had been jumbled and disturbed, jumps out of the relative doze at the sound with a shallow curse. He can hear the shower fan whirling in the background. There’s a headache from too much rum punch and a bruise forming where Feuilly had fallen over him at some point towards the end of the night. But the smell of coffee is a comfort to say the least, sending him rolling, a mess of limbs and duvet, from bed into the main apartment.

 

It’s like stumbling straight into a second dream, as Grantaire is sat alone in one of the armchairs, nursing a cup of coffee with his head dipped. The morning radio is crackling and Joly’s sweater has been left balled up on a beanbag. Enjolras rubs his eyes. Grantaire is still there, taking tentative sips of steaming liquid.

 

He remembers. Courfeyrac had decided to go home with Jehan, Enjolras had invited Grantaire, Bahorel and Feuilly to stay as Combeferre was the only one remaining. He remembers laughing as Bahorel and Feuilly pulled Grantaire between the two of them on the pile of beanbags, draping a blanket over Combeferre who was already asleep in the garden chair. The others had left at some point in the middle of the night, loudly parading through the corridor and shouting up at Enjolras’ window from the street billow.

 

“There’s more in the pot, Combeferre made it before they left.” Grantaire says a little huskily having heard the creaking of the floorboards. Enjolras makes an incomprehensible noise, trying to sort out his tangled hair as he pads over to the kitchen. There’s a huge pile of cups and plates in the sink and half eaten bowls of snacks on the kitchen counter, a mess that Enjolras will put off tidying until the very last moment.

 

Grantaire is humming along to the morning radio, and Enjolras thinks back to the night before. They had watched all the films with the audio description on despite Grantaire’s protest, and even in the moments of silence, at least one if not several members of the group had taken the liberty of describing what was on the screen. But Grantaire had been at his most peaceful towards the end of the night, when Fantasia was playing on the screen and half of their friends had fallen asleep. He leant his head on Enjolras’ shoulder, tapping out bars on Enjolras’ fingers, and humming contently. Enjolras smiles at the memory.

 

“Is there anywhere you have to be today?” Enjolras asks, totally willing to guide Grantaire to wherever he may need to be guided to.

 

“Not today, Feuilly is taking me food shopping” He scratches the bridge of his nose “Besides, I think it’s best to give Jehan and Courfeyrac their space.”

 

“In that case, I’m going to get dressed.”

 

“Why? Just how naked are you?”

 

Enjolras blushes furiously.

 

“I’m not, but I am thankful that you can’t see just how dreadful my hair is.”

 

Grantaire smiles, looking like he wants to say something but hesitates at the last moment.

 

“Glad I’ve managed to preserve your dignity.”

 

With one last glance over his shoulder, Enjolras slips back into the bedroom with the door clicking softly shut behind him. Leaning back against the door, Enjolras sighs. It’s so close to what he’s dreamed about in the early hours of the day, dreams of waking up besides him, of making him coffee in the morning, of seeing the long inky curls made even more wild by sleep. It’s so close but yet it’s still just beyond his grasp.

 

Scrubbing one hand down his face, Enjolras sluggishly pushes away from the door and reaches for a t-shirt from the hamper and a clean pair of jeans and laying them out on the bed. He strips, digging around for fresh boxers and a can of deodorant, subconsciously trying to make himself presentable even when it doesn’t really matter.

 

Opening the door again, Enjolras notices that Grantaire has moved from the armchair to the kitchen, gingerly sliding his hands across the counter until he eventually places his empty coffee mug in the sink. His cane is looped around one wrist and for a moment, Enjolras wonders what it must be like, to feel so very lost in a place that is meant to be safe.

 

“I was just wondering if you would like to burrow a t-shirt or something seeing as you slept in the one you’re wearing?” He calls across the room before he can really process it. Grantaire’s searches for the tap, tentatively turning the knob to rinse out the mug, he’s backwards facing so Enjolras can’t see his face.

 

“Yeah that would be good thanks, could I burrow a hoody or something as well?”

 

“Sure”

 

Grantaire slowly eases his way out of the kitchenette, until Enjolras walks forward to gingerly take his hands.

 

“Nearly there, mind the chair to your right.”  Grantaire chuckles, following the guidance he’s given until they’re through the open bedroom door.

 

Their hands stay together a little longer than necessary until Enjolras clears his throat and drops them, pushing the urge to kiss aside.  They stand opposite one another, Grantaire’s hands fidgeting at his sides and looking straight at Enjolras even if he isn’t aware of it. Enjolras looks around the empty space, suddenly realising that this is the first time Grantaire has been in his bedroom, and it’s messy with clothes half hanging out the hamper and sheets and tangled heap on the mattress. 

 

“Uh, so clothes.” Enjolras hastens to say, turning sharply on his heel to rummage inside the open wardrobe doors with avid attention. Grantaire stays still, not really knowing what to do with himself in a space he knows nothing about.

 

“Make sure it’s not one of your activist slogan t-shirts” Grantaire remarks, sliding back until he’s leant against the wall.

 

“What makes you think I have one?”

 

“Every activist has at least one. Also Eponine told me about your ‘the government fucks me everyday’ t-shirt” Admittedly it’s one of his favourites and at least Grantaire is finding the humour in it.

 

“How does a plain white t-shirt and a red hoody sound?”

 

“I don’t know, can I trust you?”

 

Enjolras scowls

 

“Don’t you already?” He says in all seriousness. Grantaire’s expression is strange, utterly unreadable with his brow furrowed.

 

“They’ll be great thanks” Grantaire says, taking the clothes that are held out to him and ignoring the question completely.

 

*

 

“What are you doing?” Courfeyrac asks when he lets himself into the flat a few days later. “Joly tells me you’re job hunting again.”

 

Joly had popped round the day before to get his sweater and grab some of the fold up furniture. He had also helped with the washing up as Enjolras begrudgingly vacuumed.

 

“I am. Lamarque and I talked on the phone this morning and he said he’ll pass all the fundraising we’ve done onto the activist society at the university, whilst I ‘see this as an opportunity’” Enjolras says over the laptop screen, adding the air quotations. Courfeyrac ducks under the clothes drying on the makeshift washing line stretching across the living room to flop down next to him.

 

“Great, we’re all very glad you’re still not working yourself into a frenzy about this. You weren’t happy with that admin job anyway.” Courfeyrac has kicked up his feet onto the armrest of the couch, leaning back against Enjolras’ shoulder and peering at the laptop screen.  The laptop screen is covered with lists of internships, having double back on his career path and trying again at all the avenues he had tried after graduation. Lamarque had said it was the best thing to do, to remember the days when the world was his oyster.

 

“Also I saw Grantaire wearing your clothes the other day, does this mean you’ve finally accepted the fact you want to adopt children with him?”

 

Enjolras screws his nose up at the word children. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.

 

“Fine, does this mean you want him to hold your hand whilst you viciously overthrow the government?”

 

That’s more like it; it has Enjolras smiling to himself.

 

“Maybe”

 

“Finally” Courfeyrac sighs with relief.

 

Enjolras hums, occupying his mind by bookmarking the interesting course options.

 

“There’s an organization my firm works in partnership with, they help to put people in difficult positions back on their feet. Oh course, our firm is there to help provide legal aid, but it’s a small charity and I’m sure they could do with all the help they can get. Do you want me to put in a word for you?”

 

Enjolras looks down at Courfeyrac’s head now nestled in the crook of his arm.

 

“If you could that would be great.” Courfeyrac shifts to grin up at him. For a moment, it seems like things might be picking up again

 

*

Enjolras’ apartment seems to turn into an open house after the film night Not that the door hasn’t always been open to any who need to enter, and the majority of his friends all have keys anyway, but lately there seems to be a steady stream of people coming and going.

 

Combeferre comes later in the day, when Enjolras has set aside the laptop so he and Courfeyrac can watch the 25th anniversary concert of The Phantom of the Opera. Combeferre walks through the door midway through ‘All I Ask of You’.

 

“Combeferre you’re a little late, but you still have time to join in. You always have made a wonderful Christine Daae.” Courfeyrac calls out shifting his head from Enjolras’ lap to make room for Combeferre.

 

“Oh, and who has been filling my role?”

 

“I have, you know Enjolras refuses to be anyone be Raoul but we’ve been splitting the other roles between us.”

 

“Admittedly Prima Dona isn’t quite the same without Musichetta as Carlotta.”

 

Combeferre nods in agreement, humming long to the reprise as he places his bag on the kitchen counter and helps himself to water. Enjolras watches him as he notice the lone letter on the countertop, the tiny slip of thick paper, embossed with gold lettering inside a now torn cream envelope. Courfeyrac had laughed himself silly when they opened it.

 

“Your parents summer ball, I thought you were banned from attended after last time.” Combeferre stifles a laugh as he holds up the invitation.

 

The last time Enjolras attended had been four years ago at the age of nineteen, where he had proceeded to get blind drunk and insult pretty much every person in the room. He had been ‘escorted’ from the premises and it was at this time when his parents had cut him off entirely. But the sudden invitation was in keeping with this years attempts to reconnect with their only child.

 

“I was, but it seems they want to welcome me back to the family. I think they’re trying to see if there is any hope left for me at all.” There wasn’t, not a single shred of hope was left for him as far as his parents are concerned, and the sooner they figure it out the better.

 

“Are you going?”

 

Enjolras huffs, downing the last of the wine they had been sharing.

 

“Unfortunately I am, roped in by mother who decided to call me twice daily for an entire week before I agreed. Maybe if I insult more of their friends they’re finally get the hint and leave me alone.”

 

“Why don’t you take Grantaire with you? That way you’ll at least have a dancing partner.” Courfeyrac teases, raising his eyebrows as he takes a gulp from his own glass of wine. Enjolras scowls at him.

 

“If he meets my parents he’ll take to the hill and never return, I don’t want to scare him off that quickly.” He liked the idea of dancing with Grantaire though.

 

“In that case.” Courfeyrac announces, setting his glass down just as Masquerade starts playing and standing up. “We’ll need to work on your dancing. Don’t want to you embarrass yourself in front of strangers ”

 

Courfeyrac holds out his hand after half bowing, one hand positioned behind his back. Enjolras laughs, taking the hand presented to him. Combeferre sits at the kitchen counter, watching as his friends waltz circles around the living room.

 

*

 

Wednesday morning is met with an exasperated looking Jehan and a plastic bag of clothes.

 

“Here. Grantaire would have come himself but he’s being difficult” The bag is thrust into Enjolras’ hands, revealing his t-shirt and hoody neatly folded and bundled inside.

 

They’ve had to retreat indoors after the rain started pattering on the outside tables shortly after everyone had gathered, so they’re gathered in the Musain’s basement with breakfast muffins spread out on the table with cups of hot beverages and juice dotted around. Jehan and Courfeyrac had been last to arrive, shaking out their hair having been caught by surprise with the rain.

 

“Thank you” Enjolras says, a little wary of Jehan when he’s grumpy, a rare occurrence but one that shouldn’t be messed about with. Jehan waves a dismissive hand, pulling up a seat next to Joly who is filling out the morning newspaper’s crossword with the help of Bossuet.

 

Sitting back down with Feuilly and Cosette, Enjolras takes out his red hoody from the bag, silently thankful it is still dry and uses it to replace his damp sweater. The fabric is soft and worn from years of use, it is his favourite after all, but this time it’s different. It’s been washed, smelling of detergent that distinctly isn’t Enjolras and there is still of trace of unfamiliar deodorant gripping to the fibres. It’s Enjolras’ hoody but it smells so much like Grantaire is almost takes him by the surprise.

 

Enjolras smiles, sinking back into his chair with the zip done up, the fabric of the collar bunching up around his neck. If he inhales the new smell occasionally, relaxing instantly, then it’s his secret to keep.

 

*

 

It’s Jehan who catches his arm when he’s going up the stairs at the end of the morning meet, a gentle grip on his forearm that has Enjolras leaning over the banister to listen.

 

“Look I know its wrong of me to ask you this but could you do me a favour?” Jehan says a little sheepishly.

 

“Of course.”

 

He shuffles from foot to foot.

 

“It’s just, R has been a bit difficult over the past few days and he’s refusing to leave the house unless he _has_ to. Do you think you could just go and check on him?”

 

Enjolras chews his lip nervously.

 

“I don’t know…”

 

“Please, it’s just, I’m going round Courfeyrac’s later today and I just want to make sure he’s alright. He’ll probably be fine, just a little moody, but I know he won’t pick up his phone so I just need to know if he’s okay.”

 

Enjolras sighs, running fingers through his hair. He doesn’t see how him of all people going over there will help. There may be a momentary ceasefire between the two of them, but all it takes is one word and they’ll be screaming at each other so loudly the neighbours will complain. But nevertheless he resigns himself to the task. Jehan thanks him right there and then and again when they part ways.

 

He waits until three before heading over to the house of the hill. It’s been raining on and off all day and this time Enjolras is prepared with an umbrella, even if he hates bringing it on and off the metro. The florist is shut and the neighbouring café is half empty, a disgruntled looked waiter turning the chairs up onto the tables outside and getting soaked in the process. Enjolras ducks up the awning, fiddling with the umbrella until it eventually snaps shut before buzzing the doorbell.

 

He buzzes three times before Grantaire’s voice crackles to life over the intercom.

 

“Hello?”

 

“It’s Enjolras.”

 

There’s a brief pause.

 

“Didn’t Jehan give you your clothes back?”

 

“He did, thanks for that by the way. But he wanted me to come round and check on you” There’s no point lying. Grantaire snorts.

 

“Did he now, come on up then the door is open. But could you do me a favour and lock it after you, there’s a key on top of the door frame.”

 

The intercom cuts out and Enjolras pushes the door chipped green door open. Feeling around the top of the doorframe, sure enough there’s a key covered in dust lying on the top, which he used to jerk the stiff lock back into place. The hallway is dark, the only light seeping in from the top of the stairs where the apartment door must be open.

 

Grantaire is in what looks like his c when Enjolras enters, listening to an audiobook playing loudly through the speakers. His hair is messy and unwashed, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.

 

“Didn’t you go to work today?”

 

“Part time remember, and this evenings rehearsals are cancelled.” Grantaire says with a complete lack of interest, chewing on the sleeve of his jumper. “Well, you’ve checked on me, I guess you can relay a report to Jehan.”

 

Enjolras walks around the kitchen, placing used bowls and plates in the sink to make the surfaces clear for when its need.

 

“Go get dressed, I’m buying you coffee.” Enjolras says, completely ignoring Grantaire’s sarcasm. Grantaire places a hand over his eyes, laid on his back on the sofa.

 

“I’ve got coffee here, you don’t need to buy any.”  He groans.

 

“Please Grantaire, we’ll just go to the one right next door, that’s not far now is it.”

 

It takes a good five minutes until Grantaire reluctantly huffs out a ‘fine’ before rolling off the couch to go get dressed. Enjolras picks the pillows that have had followed Grantaire off the sofa and places them back where they belong. It’s a victory, even if Grantaire seems set on taking the longest time possible to get things done, hoping Enjolras’ impatience will win over and he’ll have a change of heart.

 

Twenty minutes finds Grantaire still in his pyjamas t-shirt and a pair of jeans, begrudgingly following Enjolras down the stairs. The neighbouring café is a traditional place, with brown and ambers, bread behind the counter and chalk boards menus written entirely in French. In fact, everyone is French here; it’s not a place tourists seem to wander into often. Grantaire takes a window seat, muttering something about black coffee. Enjolras watches him, bundled up and hunched over, worn out and sad and it pulls at something deep within him. Luckily the place is half empty, so there’s no queue and it barely takes five minutes for their drinks to be prepared.

 

 “I used to live in Marseille, my family own a small house near the beach.” Grantaire says when Enjolras places the mugs down on the table, reaching out for the saucer. “I came to Paris on a scholarship to study music around six years ago.”

 

Enjolras slides into the opposite chair. The rain is hammering against the window pane, the view of the street obscured by the writing on the glass. Grantaire takes a mouthful, half curled into himself. The sentence comes from nowhere and instantly has Enjolras’ attention, sitting silently to allow Grantaire to talk at his own pace.

 

“I was a very different person back then. I smoked a pack a day, and drank myself into oblivion and spent the majority of my time doing something stupid. I met Jehan through a friend of mine at the time; he had just inherited the florist from his grandmother who had passed away shortly before hand. We spent a lot of time drinking and getting high and walking around Paris in the middle of the night, trying to be great artists by living the bohemian life.”

 

Grantaire sighs, his hands shaking as he puts the teacup down, the china clattering together. Enjolras slowly reaches across, nudging his fingers against Grantaire’s until they intertwined.

 

“One night we’d all had quite a lot to drink, I had blown my scholarship and been kicked out the school due to my complete lack of commitment and was yet to tell my parents. I can’t really remember much of it, but three of us got into a car with the ambition to drive off into the sunset and hit the road like we’re fucking Jack Kerouac. I was in the passenger seat and someone was in the back and we’re going way above the speed limit. Anyway, we must have taken the bend too sharply because suddenly we lost control of the car. I can’t remember what happened, I blacked out instantly due to blunt trauma to the head.”

 

The grip on Enjolras’ fingers tighten, Grantaire’s voice cracking. It hits Enjolras straight in the chest, and he squeezes the fingers in his hand in return, encouraging Grantaire to continue.

 

“The doctors said the blindness was caused by a dangerous mixture of burns and blunt impact causing my retina to detach. I also broke three ribs and my arm, with heavy scarring from where the car caught fire. The driver died instantly and the person in the back seat also had many broken bones. I was in and out of hospital and institutes for around three years, getting used to living like this and coping with PTS, all the while Jehan let me move in and took really good care of me.”

 

Grantaire tilts his head forward, thick black curls spilling over his eyes. The index finger on his free hand traces around the rim of the mug. Enjolras briefly remembers how stocked Jehan’s medicine cabinet is, and can’t even think about the sheer number of accidents Grantaire probably had in those first few days, when every movement was his enemy.

 

“ I mean, in a way it helped me get my life back on track what with no longer drinking and all, but after a few years you realise you can’t remember what anyone looks like and never will know what anyone will look like.”

 

He looks at Enjolras as if trying to make a point. Enjolras aches with sympathy, coffee forgotten as he lays his free hand over the top of Grantaire’s, rubbing the pad of one finger of his knuckles.

 

“If it’s any consolation, you are truly remarkable.” Enjolras says softly, meaning every single word he says. He’s always thought Grantaire as remarkable, even if he had never fully comprehended it. Grantaire’s laugh is bitter around the edges.

 

“Says you. If you wish to see something remarkable then look away from me and go look in a mirror. I’m sure your face is as beautiful as your way with words.” Enjolras blushes despite himself, knowing Grantaire is using his smile as a way of steering the compliment away from himself.

 

“I mean it.” He replies, tracing over the back of Grantaire’s hand. “Thank you for telling me about the accident.”

 

“I said that I might tell you about it sometime, seems today is your lucky day.” Grantaire makes a half interested reference to their time on the boating lake, when Enjolras had first asked a personal question. Enjolras can’t think of the words to say, so he says nothing, and lets the silence sit comfortably between them.

 

This time, neither one of them lets go of the others hand.

 

 *

 

Later, when Enjolras calls Jehan to tells him everything is fine, he finds out that the sixth year anniversary of the car accident was two days ago.

 

He lies away that night staring at the ceiling and wonders with Grantaire dreams of crashing when he sleeps. 

 

*

 

Friday night and they’ve all gathered at The Corinth for drinks.  There was no set celebration, just a simple idea passed down the line until they’ve taken up several tables and orders a great variety of alcoholic drinks. It’s good for them, to loosen up in preparation of the weekend and swap stories of days gone by. Courfeyrac is a wonderful storyteller, currently stood up and addressing the congregation about the time he and Enjolras had gotten banned from the university library for three months (thankfully he misses out the part about Enjolras infatuation with one of the TAs at the time, and that the whole ordeal had occurred due to Courfeyrac’s ten point plan to somehow get them into each other’s pants. It had failed miserably. Enjolras ignored Courfeyrac for three days straight.)

 

Grantaire is there, sat with Joly and Bossuet and smiling widely. He and Musichetta are the only ones without alcoholic drinks, Musichetta saying something about former alcoholics sticking together. Instead they had helped themselves to the fruit cocktail list and had both ordered an extravagant pink coloured drink with tiny umbrellas. Enjolras hadn’t told anyone besides Jehan about Wednesday, there’s no need to, it had been a moment of confidence shared between the two of them and this time no one else was invited.

 

Courfeyrac has decided to turn his attention to embarrassing Marius, recounting the time they had gotten drunk and abandoned Marius in the club toilets without realising it until the managers had called them to pick him at because they needed to close. Which then opened up the ‘ridiculous things Pontmercy has done’ bank vault and stories came pilling out left right and centre. Marius turns from pink to an impressive beetroot colour.

 

“That’s it, I don’t know why I’m friends with any of you.”

 

“Now now Marius” a now very buzzed Courfeyrac counters “Do not make all our long nights spent spooning when you first moved in go to waste.” Marius thumps Courfeyrac on the arm.

 

Grantaire is almost in tears laughing when he excuses himself from the group to make his way outside. Enjolras take the time when all the focus is still on Marius, to slip out after him. Outside it’s a warm as the summer drags the night out, the sky only just turning dark despite the lateness of the hour. Several punter are sat outside at tables spilling onto the pavement with beer and wine, the street alive with chatter.

 

Grantaire is leaning against the wall smiling to himself. Enjolras is still holding a bottle of beer in his hand, condensation running down the side and over his hand as he leans next to Grantaire. Their shoulder’s brush.

 

“Hi” He says

 

“Hi” Grantaire counts, turning his head in Enjolras’ direction with a smile.

 

“It’s good to see you”

 

“I would say the same but you know, technicalities.” Grantaire laughs “I never have been one to miss a night of drinking, old habits die hard I guess.”

 

Enjolras smiles, brushes his fingers against Grantaire’s who does the same in return. The weather is perfect and Enjolras hasn’t felt so relax in a long time. For a moment the world has stilled and allowed them an oasis amongst the desert that is difficulties of the world.

 

“The other day you asked me if I trusted you.” Grantaire says, rubbing the back of his neck “And I do. I do trust you. You could lead me to the end of the earth and I’d still trust you.”

 

Enjolras’ chest contracts, his stomach doing back flips because never have a few simple words meant so much to him. Grantaire’s life revolves around trust, pure unconditional trust that his friends will help him, that they’ll be his eyes when he needs them to be. To have Enjolras included so implicitly has a pool of satisfaction bubbling him inside him.

 

“I’m glad. I trust you too.” Their heads are leant back against the wall and they’re so close, connected from the shoulder all the way down to the thigh. Grantaire’s hair is tucked behind his ear so that his milky pupils can be seen, clouded by traumatic cataracts and he’s smiling until it falters.

 

“Do you think you can trust me for just a moment?” Grantaire asks a little gingerly and Enjolras wonders if Grantaire knows about the way he manages to make eye contact at all the right moments. His throat is suddenly dry, words having a little trouble scraping up his vocal chords.

 

“Yes” It’s whispered into the space between them.

 

As if mirroring the time so long ago, when a battered up Enjolras sat on the living room floor with Grantaire’s fingers tracing over his features; Grantaire lifts his hand to curve against his cheek. Enjolras resists the urge to lean into the touch, eyes slipping touch as fingers brush over his cheekbone and down the contour of his face, pausing at the corner of his mouth to tilt Enjolras’ head ever so slightly.

 

“Hold still” Grantaire whispers, slowing leaning forward to place the tiniest of kisses to Enjolras’ lips.

 

It’s soft, barely even a touch of lips and allows Enjolras all the time to push away if he wanted. But pushing away is far away from what he wants. He wants Grantaire close; to finally run his fingers through curls and down his neck, to tangle their fingers together and not let go. Which he does, sliding his hand round to the nape of Grantaire’s neck to play with the short soft hairs there.

 

Enjolras can feel it when Grantaire smiles, hand dropping from Enjolras’ cheek to his waist instead. Enjolras can’t help but smile in return and suddenly they’re laughing, pressed forehead to forehead, it’s giddy and has a rush of joy coursing through his veins.

 

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted that.” Enjolras admits, still threading strands of hair through his fingers.

 

“So much that you want to do it again?”

 

Instead of answering verbally Enjolras just leans back in to kiss Grantaire fully this time without any hesitation, just pulls him close so that any space between them vanishes. The condensation of the beer bottle has seeped into the denim where it’s resting against his thigh, but Grantaire’s is warm and Enjolras has a feeling that his mouth could dismantle him if given the time. Their kiss is lazy to match the Parisian summer’s night they’re stood out in. There will be time for rushed kisses all tongue and teeth in the future, this is just a promise sealed between closed mouths.

 

It takes a while before they decide to go back inside, their fingers hooked together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a prologue and my future updates will probably be longer in length
> 
> Thank you to everyone on tumblr who has given their support and listened to me discuss this AU in my posts and stuff. Of course, this fic relies upon a lot of googling in regards to how blind people live and how blindness can develop, so if there is any inaccuracy then I can only apologize and hope you leave your tips/ advice/ info ever in a comment or over at[ my tumblr](http://sodafly.tumblr.com/)


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